Pain is a poison
by Yvanthe
Summary: Story starts immediately as HLV ends, Sherlock returns to England as all is not well. Neither he or Mycroft is prepared for Moriarty's first move and someone vital to London's Consulting Detective is in the crosshairs. I don't own the characters, those are property of ACD's estate, Gatiss and Mofatt. This is posted on Ao3 where I'm known as Stormweaver.
1. Chapter 1 - Intro

''Did you miss me?''

Within what seemed to be a heartbeat, the plane had landed, the passenger disembarked and they were loaded into the Mycroft's government car. They all stared at the image on the screen, John in disbelief, Sherlock in disgust. The image taunted for approximately ten minutes and abruptly the screen went blank.

"Well, isn't that just bloody special," John growled.

Sherlock glanced over at his friend, a slight smile curling his lips. Both amused and annoyed, he turned to his brother. "One does not swallow a bullet and waltz away. And I assure you, that person on the roof most definitely blew the back of his head across the top of St. Bart's! You assured me that it was him, Mycroft," Sherlock growled, leaning back into the leather of the seat.

"I am every bit as vexed as you are, dear brother," Mycroft drawled, "All tests indicated that it was indeed him. If it weren't against current government rules, I'd have the idiot who made the seeming mistake flogged." Leaning back into the leather upholstery of the car, Mycroft visibly steeled himself, "This, interruption, presents a series of interesting questions. The most obvious of them is why now?"

"Sherlock's exile?" Mary inquired, her hand gripping John's tightly.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, "Possible." He paused, straightened his shirt with a firm tug and Mary had the sense that he was settling himself, "Three years gone, I'm exiled and if this is Moriarty, he knows I'm going to certain danger," his eyes flicked to Mycroft, "and while Moriarty's goal is my demise, he wants or wanted it at his hands. There's always the chance that this is a ruse, of course, but the timing makes that suspect." Sherlock glanced out the window as car pulled away from the tarmac. "Three distinct probabilities then; he's alive, he's dead and I missed a minion or we have a very talented fan waiting in the wings.''

"Christ, a fan," John grimaced. "Seriously, he has those?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, glancing over at his best friend, "How is it really any different than Anderson's little Empty Hearse club? Some turn to the sinner, some to the saint but angel and demon both have a following. The Ripper, for example, how many have admired his doings? Moriarty has fans, make no mistake, he would appeal to certain types – they will see the charm, the wit, the danger, they choose to overlook the ruthlessness."

"Perhaps," Mycroft murmured, "that trait appeals to a good many as well. It's a short walk from fan to follower." He straightened, his eyes focusing on his brother, "This is just his first move, until we know his second, back to Baker Street with you."

Quiet descended in the Bentley as it navigated through the streets of London, only to be broken by the chirp of Sherlock's mobile.


	2. Chapter 2 - Lestrade

Setting down his empty pint of bitters, Greg Lestrade winced as the kick went wide of the goal. The screen flickered, the picture distorted and Lestrade started as the profile of a face he'd hoped never to see again flicked over the screen. '_Bugger_,' he thought as patrons began to yell at the telly.

While the bar raged around him, he pealed a few pounds out of his billfold and tossed them at the barkeep, then strode from the bar as his mind whirling furiously. A thousand thoughts went through his brain but he kept circling back to one, 'seriously, now?' No one takes over Britain's telly in the middle of one of the most watched match ups without a serious motive, hell, no one takes over Britain's broadcasts ever. This broadcast was a message and there was no doubt in his mind as to whom it was for.

He knew about Sherlock's exile, was one of the few who did. While they never spoke of it, Mycroft hadn't always been the British Government and Lestrade hadn't always been homicide. When things were bad and Mycroft needed someone to bail out his little brother, he dealt with his 'dear friend at New Scotland Yard'. It was rubbish, he knew it and Mycroft knew it. Still, there was debt there, owed to him, owed to Mycroft and owed for the other that neither of them ever spoke about.

They would be at the hangar still, Mycroft, Mary and John. He glanced around quickly, surveying the area about him, well aware of Moriarty's previous scheme. _Don't be a git_, Lestrade chastised himself, _If he meant you dead now, you'd be dead. It'll be very different targets this time, different goals. Three years of quiet and now this, whatever it is, it'll be big_' He was certain that Mycroft had protection around the clock at Baker Street, Sherlock may be facing certain doom but hell hath no fury like a consulting detective with an injured landlady. Pulling his peacoat tight about him, he signalled for a cab and gave instructions to be driven to St. Bartholomew's.

His thoughts drifted in the cab, he wasn't looking forward to being the bearer of bad news and lately that's all he seemed to be when it came to Molly. As helpful as the Holmes brothers could be, there was a high price to being their friend and he hadn't particularly liked either brother for leaving the task of telling Molly about Sherlock's shooting, or Sherlock shooting Magnusson for that matter to him. The years had toughened the pathologist but no one doubted that she was still completely barmy about the youngest Holmes.

The cabbie cleared his throat, signalling their arrival. Lestrade paid the man and made his way through the empty corridors that lead to the morgue. He stopped a few feet in front of the door, his brain screaming at him, noting the droplets of blood in front of the door. Cautiously he approached the doors pushing them open.

"Bloody hell!" Reaching for his cell-phone he fired off a fast text hoping against odds for a miracle.


	3. Chapter 3 - Watson

Sherlock scanned the mobile that Mycroft had returned to him earlier and a sigh left him unbidden. He focused on John and Mary across from him, while he showed the message to Mycroft. As Mycroft lifted the onboard telephone to give the driver new instructions, Sherlock met John's gaze and said simply, "Lestrade. We're needed at St. Bart's."

Confused, John Watson blinked a moment, "There's a body already? That's rather quick."

Sherlock shook his head as he typed a message, "Possible. The message simply said St. Bart's, urgently." There was a muted chirp, a look of consternation crossed Sherlock's face before he blanked it, his eyes suddenly gone cold, "He says not."

"Molly," Mary murmured under her breath, "It's her shift today, isn't it?"

John shrugged slightly; he'd never really thought about it, she always seemed to be there. He wasn't really surprised when Sherlock confirmed that she would be at work. _How like Sherlock_, he thought, _he can remember her schedule but he can't remember to bring bloody tea home_.

"Of course, I remember, John," Sherlock grumbled, reading the thought from his facial expression, "She's the only pathologist worth working with."

Mary laughed, her hand settling on John's knee, "You mean she's the only one who'll work with you."

Sherlock inclined his head, conceding her point with a certain grace. Mary smiled at him, resting her head on John's shoulder for a moment. John patted her hand and settled into the seat, taking the comfort she offered, thankful that they were only minutes from the hospital. After a few moments, Sherlock cleared his throat, attracting Mycroft's attention, "Whilst I'm loathe to ask a favour, honour demands it, might we impose upon you to convey Mary safely home."

Mycroft gave him a withering stare, "It was presumed, Sherlock. Don't be an idiot, or think for a moment I am going anywhere without you. We are all aware of what happened the last time. Mummy would be furious if I set you lose on London without supervision. Rest assured plans have been made; a team is sweeping the house as we speak."

"Her safety is paramount," Sherlock began, only to be cut off by Mycroft stating, "Again, I am aware. I have arranged for my best to meet us."

When the car pulled into the ambulance bay at St. Bart's, John stared at Mycroft before shifting his gaze to the woman waiting. Mycroft nodded at her as they exited the car and Anthea smiled impishly at John before she slid into the car across from Mary, closing the door firmly and the car sped away.

After a second, Sherlock said in exasperation, "Really, John, you still think she's his assistant? When have you ever seen Mycroft waste an asset?" Sherlock gestured for John to lead, Sherlock and Mycroft locking into step behind him as they paced down the hallway. As they stepped around the corner, John stopped abruptly; staring at the sea of London's finest blocking the hallway. Donovan glanced up and then away, gesturing urgently to someone. John was shocked when the police parted and Anderson emerged from the group and gestured them through to the doorway. "Christ," he whispered as he took in the total destruction of the pathology lab. He was so focused on the destruction of the lab that he barely heard Sherlock's pained whisper, '_Molly._'


	4. Chapter 4 - Sherlock

Sherlock stepped into the lab to stand beside Lestrade, well aware of the presence of John and Mycroft behind him. His eyes met Mycroft, who nodded and drew a protesting John aside as Sherlock carefully but firmly shut the doors to the lab.

"I haven't moved from this spot," Lestrade said by way of greeting, "and never have I been happier to see your sorry face." Warm blue green eyes flicked over to meet chocolate brown, a fleeting smile tracing across his lips, then he turned his attention fully to the destruction and those unique eyes froze.

Sherlock stepped forward into the maelstrom remains of the lab, pausing for a moment to bring forward the image of the pristine lab to his mind. A surge of anger erupted and he fought it down, in this now, caring was very much a disadvantage. Taking a deep breath, he bent to inspect the broken remains of beakers and flasks lay shattered on the floor amongst a variety of tools and implements. In amongst the chaos of tools, droplets of blood speckled the floor and one wall behind a microscope. At the sight of the blood, anger threatened to boil back to the surface, something he'd wrestled with since he'd first seen Moriarty's laughing face on the telly.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock ran his fingers lightly across the counter where a stool lay overturned at his feet.

Sherlock paused, having completed his initial survey of the lab. As clear as a watching a film, his brain began to play the plausible theories, "Several," he growled, glancing around. His mind supplied the image of a male attacker carrying Molly away and he ruthlessly dismissed it. _No, _he thought, _had he caught her swiftly, there would be less damage or a body. _The destruction appeared to be in two distinct zones, the bulk of the lab and then a small contained area near his favourite microscope.

"How long between when you saw Moriarty's little surprise and your arrival at the morgue?" he asked Lestrade while he turned his attention back to the bulk of the destruction.

"Five minutes, no more than ten."

_'He was already here when the surprise hit the telly'. _In the bulk of the room, gurneys were toppled, stools thrown, implements scattered and shattered. '_She ran', _he thought, '_good girl. _He shifted in attention to the far side of the counter, noting a streak of blood that splashed out from left to right about 180 centimeters from the front. _'She fought back,' _he thought and fought back a shiver of fright. '_Not arterial but definitely painful'_. In amongst the dropped saws, scalpels and shield, the tray that normally held them was severely dented, a smear of blood on the far left corner of the tray and a strand of what looked to be ash blond hair smeared with blood. "Two ideas," he pronounced, as he carefully picked up the tools so important to her trade, his eyes flickering over them before stating, "there's a scalpel missing."

D.I. Lestrade studied the carnage before him, before asking, "How can you tell?"

Sherlock straightened, stepping past the dented tray to one of the storage counters. '_No blood here, despite the wealth of tools pooled on the floor around it'_. He smiled then, glancing back at the Detective Inspector, "Molly Hopper is many things, precise is one of them. It's one of the reasons I'm insistent that I work with her. She's very meticulous about her tools, always a specific order, always a certain number of scalpels and one is missing."

Turquoise eyes gazed at the sea of police milling behind the doors of the pathology lab, "You're going to want to send your lot through the building. Don't expect significant blood trail but there should be spattering, I would expect he's expectorating blood in his need to breath. I wouldn't expect he's gotten far, given that she's damaged his larynx, he will be of average height, about 180cm tall, ash blond hair."

"The blood's not hers," Lestrade said with relief.

"No," Sherlock agreed, "it isn't, the blood droplets come from a taller person and if that slash of blood were hers, it wouldn't be at that height or angle. He may have been the attacker but he didn't expect our Molly to fight back or to win. That tray on the floor shows trauma and none of it is hers. Look around you, Lestrade," He gestured around him, "Sometimes it's about what's missing, sometimes it's about what's present that shouldn't be." With his toe, he moved what looked like a specialty blender, "This shouldn't be here. It's very rarely used." Turning to the cupboard, he grasped the doors and opening them abruptly to step back and reveal a clearly unconscious Molly Hopper clutching a bloody scalpel to her chest.


	5. Chapter 5 - Molly

"Did you miss me?"

Molly stopped abruptly, caught in the doorway leading from the pathology lab to the postage-stamp sized office where Moriarty's face laughed on her computer. Her mind went blank with fear for a split second and then she heard him.

The faintest of scuffing sounds filtered into her conscious and she was moving in an instant, whirling in away from the stranger in her lab. Had friends or colleagues seen her in that instance, they might have considered referring to her as something other than mousy Molly. She moved with a burst of speed that Sherlock or Watson would never have accredited to her and in a way, she had Sherlock to thank for that.

As she ran around the counter in the center of the room, she had no time to think back to the moment when everything changed, when he asked her to kill him. He had no idea then of the events he'd set into motion, the changes he'd made in that single leap of faith. He leapt, she caught, he left to fix things and she was left behind with a shattered life, shattered friends and shattered esteem. She had expected to be forgotten the flurry of angst and drama whipped up by the British tabloid press, she'd forgotten two things: Sherlock Holmes rewards loyalty with loyalty and Mycroft Holmes always pays his debts.

Beakers and flasks are picked up and thrown at her attacker as she races towards the Pathology lab door, when he snatches her up, her feet slam into the door and kick off, sending them sprawling to the floor where she regains her feet and runs again, praying for time.

_**You have three options**,_ she remembers as she runs, _**run, fight or die**_. Sherlock had a simple request of Mycroft as he left England to pursue Moriarty's network, watch over his friends. Needless, really, Mycroft had intended to do it anyway. It may take years, yet he knew his tenacious younger brother would root out and burn the remains of Moriarty's network and Sherlock required his friends. That included the often underestimated pathologist. He'd introduced himself whilst collecting his brother's 'body', placing himself at her immediate disposal which served to illicit a giggle from her and a smile from Anthea.

Inclining his head politely, he'd retreated from the lab and asked his 'assistant' for her opinions on the young woman so pivotal in the Moriarty debacle. In his estimation, she would crumble if one of Moriarty's thugs had a moment of clarity and thought to interview the woman about Sherlock's autopsy. To his surprise and to Anthea's credit, she disagreed and offered a tidy solution. Teach the rabbit to be a fox. Unasked and unbidden, Anthea volunteered to be the obvious go between, striking up a friendship with the pathologist, passing on information on Sherlock's progress and continued 'good health' and one evening when they were out enjoying a cuppa, made the offer of a lifetime.

_"Life is hard on the people who love the Holmes," she'd said, "they command fierce loyalty and the rewards are well worth the pain but it's not easy." Anthea studied her cup of tea, inhaling the hint of bergamot and currant, "We're a special group, cherished, dependable but we're never ever safe. That isn't usually an issue, they tend to pick a durable lot, and then the exception, you." Molly had bristled at that, she was dependable; Sherlock assured her that she mattered. Anthea's eyes had softened, "You're breakable, Molly, but if you let me, I'll fix that." _

Fix it, she had. The sixteen months of blood and sweat equity had finally come due and training had become instinctive. _**You'll never have the height or weight advantage**. **Run, disable if possible but always run**_**.** She tipped gurneys into his path, trying to fight her way back to the doors and safety until she realized her misstep. She's placed herself behind the long narrow counter that separated the equipment from the storage bays and door. Her eyes swept across the counter and she snatch up a scalpel, slashing it across his face in a bid to buy herself time to get past him. He swore violently, grabbing her lab coat, twisting it as he pulled her closer. In desperation, she grabbed the tray of scalpels, dumping on the floor and attempted to use it as shield between them. Two things worked in her favour, as he jerked her towards him, she slipped slightly on the blood that had dripped from the nasty slash across his face and she fell towards him, driving the tray full force into his throat. With that, she was free as he fell to the floor, and she scrambled away from him.

Vaguely, she heard another man's voice faintly - sounding a million miles away and the attacker struggled to his feet and fled the lab. She had a moment of relief until she heard the sounds of feet falling heavily in the corridor, despair flooded her for a moment and in desperation she ripped open the storage cupboard and swept the equipment to the floor before crawling into the cupboard and pulling the doors shut. Knees pressed tight to her chest, she rocked for a moment, clutching the scalpel tight as she rested her head against the side of the cupboard and did the one thing Anthea would give her hell about. She passed out.


	6. Chapter 6 - Mycroft

As Sherlock bent to remove the scalpel from Molly's grip and as he disappeared behind the center counter of the lab to check on her, Lestrade spun on his heel and opened the doors to the morgue. All activity in the hallway stopped abruptly as everyone turned to look at him. "Right," he began, "We're looking for a bloke, 180cm, ash blond hair and he's been cut up. Sherlock says he has a throat injury. He's coughing blood and can't be far, find 'im. Donovan, get everyone organized, I want this bugger found and found fast. Anderson, when they find the bastard, I want you to get everything you can off him – co-ordinate with Stamford, no one else touches the body but you two." When they stared at him, he said, "Not her, him. Get moving!" he roared then turned his attention to Mycroft and John. "She's okay," he said simply, grinning viciously, "She beat the living hell out of the git, our girl did, according to Sherlock. That lot will find him."

Watson stared at the trashed lab, "She's okay?"

Lestrade half turned, looking over at Sherlock who had disarmed Molly and was helping the now-conscious pathologist out of the cupboard. "You're the doctor but I'm guessing she'd know. Let's ask her."

Mycroft glanced at his brother, extracting his mobile from his suit pocket. "Get the details from Ms. Hopper. There are a few trifling details that I need to address, I shall join you shortly." With that he stepped away, striding away from the lab in search of a quiet spot in the hallway. Thumbing his mobile, he waited the single heartbeat it took for it to be answered. "Well done, dear," he soothed, "your little fox has sharp teeth and has escaped relatively unscathed. Hold your post until I contact you with more information." With that he disconnected, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders to prepare himself for the more difficult call. "Hello Mummy."

There was a pause, she said brightly, "Myc! Hello, darling! Your father and I are having lunch with the Ingrams, you remember them, **lovely** couple from dancing…"

Had anyone seen the grin on his face, they would have wondered what possessed him. "There's been a change, Sherlock is still in England. It appears Moriarty or a doppelganger is at play." He paused then said, "I know how much you enjoy the Ingrams and that this isn't really your area anymore but shall I ring you back later?"

When she spoke again, her sunny voice rang out, "That would be nice, Myc, but I don't know. Your father said something about going to the market after tea."

"I understand. Enjoy your tea, Mummy dearest." He disconnected, a faint smile curving his lips before carefully blanking his expression and turning back towards the laboratory.


	7. Chapter 7 - Introspection

Sherlock sat back on his heels and studied his pathologist for a long moment while activity erupted behind him, not that he noticed, his focus solely on the woman in the cupboard. A year ago, he would have been certain of his next action but so much had changed since he'd returned from his fall and everything meaningful had changed since Moriarty forced his hand.

A year ago, he would have plucked the scalpel from her fingers, waking her with a shake and admonishing her for falling asleep in the cupboard. The Molly that he'd known before his fall would have stammered and squeaked, flustered and nervous. That Molly would never have bashed in the throat of her attacker. _'_There_'_, he thought, '_is the crux of my inaction_.' That Molly Hooper was gone, in her place someone who thought nothing of slapping him for perceived injuries. It might well have been for a case but Molly Hooper hadn't been fooled by his quips or hard truths. He was certain she saw the deflections for what they were.

He sighed, steeling himself and forced himself into action, '_Come on, Sherlock,'_ he chided himself, '_if you can pluck Lestrade's identification from his pocket, you can take a scalpel from Ms. Hooper.' _Though he was loath to admit it, he found himself increasingly dependent on minutae to maintain what was rapidly becoming a façade of calm. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and he was about to look to his Mind Palace to ground himself when he was thrown a proverbial life-ring. Crouched as he was, the scent of lily of the valley invaded his senses. '_Of course_,'he thought, '_hand-cream.' _Inhaling slightly, he identified it as Yardley – traditional, floral, and delicate. Focused, he reached out and gently slid the scalpel out from her fingers, placing it on the floor by his feet. Fingers reached out to brush a tendril of warm brown hair from her face and with that touch, her eyes snapped open.

She startled and he snatched his hand away as if burned, before reaching forward to touch her gently on the shoulder and her startled brown eyes met his. "Ms. Hooper, so good of you to join us again," he greeted with a faint smile. To his surprise, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugged him. As her tiny form shook silently, he reached out and hugged her back, placing the gentlest of kisses on her temple, "Good to see you too, Molly."


	8. Chapter 8 - Watson

With Mycroft off doing things that only Mycroft understood (at least in theory) and Lestrade rallying his troops, John Watson stepped into the morgue careful not to disturb anything more than Sherlock already had.

"Over here, John," he heard Sherlock murmur from behind the large laboratory counter.

It was an interesting tableau, Sherlock sat back on his heels, his back almost touching the heavy wood cupboards behind him, his arms locked around the diminutive pathologist, hands rubbing the small of her back and shoulders in circular soothing motions. Her arms were wrapped in a seeming death grip around his neck, her face buried into the mass of his curls as she sobbed her heart out. Sherlock met John's gaze, his eyes bleak, "Shush, Molly Hooper, I have you," he crooned then said in a far different tone to John, "So far, no discernable breaks. I have doubts that she's injured – bruises but it's mostly shock."

Molly's grip on his neck loosened slightly and she pulled back as she blinked at him. Then she recoiled backwards into the cupboard landing on her arse, muttering, "Sorry, sorry!" Wiping furiously at her tear-streaked face, she whispered, "I don't know why I did that!"

John smiled at her gently, "I dunno, love," he soothed, offering his hand to help her up off the floor and away from the mess around them, "There have been a few times I've been found myself hugging the git myself, if you ever figure out why, let me know."

As intended, Molly let out a bark of laughter, took his pre-offered hand and levered herself to her feet. Looking around the morgue, she groaned, leaning heavily against the cupboard, "Ooooh, my beautiful morgue. Mike is going to be pissed."

"Nonsense," Sherlock admonished gently, "he'll be nothing of the sort. He is sure to be relieved that his best pathologist is safe and sound, and I'm sure England himself will see to it that anything destroyed beyond repair is replaced." He patted her on the shoulder, a faint smile curving the bow of his mouth.

She stared at him for a moment, her chin tilting slightly to the left, her eyes momentarily distant before focusing again on his face, "Why are you here?" she stammered, "You said that you were needed in Eastern Europe, six month trip and all."

He nodded sagely, rocking back on his heels and if he'd been with anyone other than John Watson or Molly Hooper, they would have missed his surreptitious glance down the hallway where Mycroft was speaking on his mobile. "Yes, well," he began, "it would appear that England has decided she needs me more. Who am I to gainsay the powers that be?"

Glancing over his shoulder at Mycroft, John muttered, "Sherlock bloody Holmes, that's who."

After reassuring Sherlock (and in no small way, himself) that Molly's injuries were limited to minor bruises and abrasions, they gingerly stepped their way out of the ruins of the morgue and joined Mycroft in the hallway now practically abandoned by the Met.

To Molly's delight and John's amazement, Mycroft gave a small but genuine smile by way of greeting and said, "Anthea is quite proud of you, Molly, she expects to be fully debriefed once we're done with the fine folks of the Metropolitan Police."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft, "Until they find the clod, there's nothing for us to do here, Mycroft."

Mycroft studied his brother for a moment, a pinched gaze that vaguely reminded Watson of an ostrich, "Sherlock, a moment in private if you'd be so kind." Stepping away, he waited patiently for a few minutes before Sherlock grumbled and gave way, striding away from his pathologist and doctor.

"What now?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten in Latvian before saying calmly, "Please be reminded that this isn't a holiday, Sherlock, this is a reprieve at worst and a stay of execution at best. You determine which. For reasons passing understanding, this situation has enabled us to keep you in England, don't abuse it."

Sherlock straightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied his elder brother, "Us?"

"A turn of phrase, dear brother," Mycroft dissembled, "Nothing more, please keep in mind that contrary to your worldview I am not the entirety of the British government and there are limits to what even I can do on your behalf. I am as delighted as you that Doctor Hooper is unharmed but she is not and cannot be our prime concern. Focus on Moriarty we must."

Tucking his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff coat, Sherlock watched Mycroft carefully for a moment and said softly, "The focus has never been off him, brother mine. If this is indeed Moriarty, nothing he has ever done is without purpose – delay, confusion, misdirection – but always with a purpose." He glanced back at the morgue, where Molly was retrieving her coat, "Back to Baker Street with me?"

Resigned, Mycroft drawled, "Shall I have Anthea return Mrs. Watson to Baker Street as well?"

"Oh, would you?" Sherlock asked impishly, "It'll save a great deal of unneeded texting, it's so delightful to plot details over the sounds of your minion clicking on her Blackberry."

Mycroft brushed non-existent lint from the sleeve of his bespoke suit, "You do realize that you can't protect them all from Baker Street." Sherlock lifted a single brow mockingly before striding back to his friends.


	9. Chapter 9 - Lestrade

For all of Sherlock's posturing, the men and women who worked under the watchful eye of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade were far from incompetent. While they were always dedicated, they were particularly mindful in this instance – every single one of them had, at some point, relied on the clinical data provided by one particular pathologist. She was to their mind, one of them and their mood could only be described as furious and somewhat blood-thirsty.

Within seconds of his rapid fire instructions, they'd spread through St. Bart's like a plague of very angry ants. It came to no surprise to him that as he strode down the hallway towards Mike Stamford's office, his radio squawked, "Got the wanker, receiving area, near the hazardous waste repository."

Anderson had arrived before him, growling instructions at the mob of officers around what was very obviously the corpse of Molly's attacker. "Lestrade," Anderson pleaded, "get these people away from here, they won't listen to me."

"Yer a pillock, Anderson!" a voice very much like Donovan's rang out from the group of milling police.

Lestrade coughed to disguise a bark of laughter, there had been many a time when he hadn't disagreed with that assessment. The years of the Fall had not been a curse to Anderson in many ways but a blessing in others. Being fooled so totally by Moriarty had been an eye opener, and if he wasn't exactly likeable, he was tolerable and willing to look at options that he'd have dismissed before. "Oi, you lot back off," Lestrade called out, "secure the area around the receiving bay, all the corridors in and out of this area. If you find anything that looks like it shouldn't be there, I don't care if it's a scrap of paper or a nail, collect it." He watched them for a moment, then growled out, "Get yer arses moving."

They scattered to the winds and he nodded once to himself, if there was something to find, they'd find it. "Lestrade," Anderson murmured, "Look at this." With deft precision, Anderson rotated the corpse's head slightly, revealing what appeared to be a state of the art com set much like the lads in the SAS used.

"He had a partner," he swore, shaking his head savagely. "Great."

Anderson studied the corpse carefully, his hands moving with unseemly grace as he searched the dead man's clothing. He paused when he noticed Lestrade's scrutiny, "No, I didn't take pictures and I haven't documented any of this. Who are we kidding? Holmes's spooky brother is going to make all of this disappear – I'm simply expediting things."

"Roight," Lestrade agreed, straightening, "so what's this berk got in his pockets then?"

Anderson glanced over at the DI and chuckled, "Do me a favour and grab that bin by your knee?" Lestrade grabbed the aforementioned bin and placed it on the floor beside the prone torso.

"Sherlock wasn't kidding when he said she'd buggered him up," Lestrade commented, really looking at the body before him. Anderson nodded as he silently divested the body of its belongings, dumping them into the bin.

"The injury to the face isn't fatal," Anderson remarked, gesturing to the vicious slash that bisected the face, "Painful as hell, bled like crazy but nothing that couldn't have been fixed without a visit to A & E. The blow to the throat, now that's what killed him." He shrugged, "Crushed any number of things from the looks of it, the blood isn't from his throat, he was just bleeding freely and trying desperately to breathe. He must have been gasping for breath at the end." He paused, "What's this?" A small USB drive landed in the bin, scarcely bigger than a thumbnail.

Lestrade noted a crumpled piece of paper in the pile and plucked it from the bin. A series of numbers and letters in six rows, twenty six letters long – no discernable pattern. "Well then," he said as he took the USB drive and stuffed it and the note into his pocket, "Let's see what England's pet genius thinks of this."

Anderson smirked, scratching at his mangy beard, "I'll stay with the body if you'd be so kind as to get Stamford to send a gurney, Lestrade."

Nodding more to himself than Anderson, he stood and walked away down the corridor, "Just as well," Lestrade drawled, "Need to talk to the bloke about some CCTV."


	10. Chapter 10 - 221B

Sherlock paused on the threshold of the flat, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep lungful of _home_. Pure sentiment, he knew, but there was something about 221B that grounded him in a way that precious little else did. Simply put, home let him think. There was a hint of lemon in the air and he grimaced slightly, wondering what Mrs. Hudson had disturbed in the course of her _'not dusting, dear'. _Despite himself, he grinned briefly and passed into the living area, striding over to grip the back of his chair before surveying the room.

His eyes quickly flickered over the contents of the flat, taking in all the things he'd never thought to see again - the antique brass tea pots, the bison skull with headphones, the lone Persian slipper. He paused for moment, stopping to consider if he still had a few cigarettes stashed into the toe before turning to people who had flooded into the room. With all the principals in the room, he had no choice but grit his teeth and concede Mycroft's point – there was no way that they could all stay at Baker St. Yes, there was Mrs. Hudson's flat but there were inherent problems with that solution as well. '_Herein lies the problem with caring,' _he could imagine Mycroft's snide tone, '_Target rich environment.'_

_This amount of people in the flat presented further logistical problems_, he thought to himself, _how the hell was he supposed to focus with them chattering like magpies? He could well imagine the combined harassment of the Watsons when presented with nicotine patches and what John mockingly called his 'Fugue state'. No, this won't do._ He heard Mary murmur something to John about bunk beds, he met her gaze and she grinned at him.

"Genius," he heard John mock, "except when it comes to practical logistics."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, he said, "There are certain practicalities that we have to discuss, John. This is the logical place, Mycroft's people are already familiar with the layout – ergo, easier for them to protect on short notice."

John nodded, "We can't stay here, mate, too crowded. There's got to be another option."

"There is." Both men turned to stare at Anthea who was watching them with a focus that they didn't normally see on her face. Her gaze met Sherlock's flat stare, "The Watson's have a perfectly defendable house, Mary and I went over the perimeter earlier – the stress would be far easier on her and Mrs. Hudson." She held up a hand when he started to speak, "I am aware that she is very capable without her having gone into detail but we cannot ignore that her pregnancy affects her capabilities."

He sat down in his chair much like a puppet with its strings cut, "Defending two fronts adds complications."

"Please," she drawled, studying him as he tapped his clasped fingers against his lips, "there are two bedrooms, excluding the nursery – we can place a detail there and still have room for them and, with Mrs. Hudson's permission, house a detail here."

He quirked a brow, "And how would you allocate our people?"

She tilted her chin slightly, glancing over at where Molly, Mary and Mrs. Hudson stood talking quietly, "Mary and Mrs. Hudson at the Watson house with two inside and four outside," when he stared at her she said, "John and DI Lestrade will be there, of course, so no need for four on the inside. Besides, as I stated, Mary isn't exactly helpless."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "She is not." He nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

"That would leave, Mr. Holmes, you, Dr. Hooper and I here."

He startled, leaning forward, "You and Mycroft here? Does England really need to take a memo?"

"Don't be tiresome," she said with a sigh, "Your brother isn't totally defenseless and I always have my blackberry to rely on,' she said mockingly. "You're capable enough, a detachment of four should do." She gestured to Watson's chair, "May I?" Sherlock turned to Watson, his eyebrows hidden somewhere in orbit around his hairline.

John nodded, arms crossed across his chest and he realized he was truly seeing Anthea for the first time. She sat regally, her knees together, ankles crossed and appearing to all and sundry as if she didn't have a care in the world. She was dressed as she usually was in a neat pencil skirt, blouse and suit coat – if that coat now revealed bulges he hadn't noticed earlier, he was hardly to blame – she hid them well. She was watching Sherlock now, much to Watson's amusement, her high wattage dimples out in full force.

"You trained Molly in self-defense," Sherlock pronounced suddenly, startling Watson.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He leaned forward, watching her intently as she explained, "Like your brother, you know but often forget that some of the people you love are ordinary." When he scoffed, she said, "Call it what you will but it is love. Your father, for example," he went rigid and she smiled, "Exactly. He's a lovely man. Couldn't harm a fly though, who watches out for him?" She pulled what looked like a file from her pocket and buffed a nail edge, "Protecting him is easy, he so rarely leaves the cottage and when he does, we watch. We always watch. Dr. Hopper; however, she's rarely home and it's not so easy to place people in the lab. She willingly if unknowingly placed herself on the radar when you fell, that type of loyalty is rare and should always be rewarded."

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement and then said softly, "You saved her life today."

She smoothed her skirt, glancing over at the pathologist, "No, sir," she disagreed, "she did that on her own." With that, she rose in a single graceful motion and stepped away to join the other women talking by the chesterfield.


	11. Chapter 11 - Sherlock

When Mycroft arrived, it was with Lestrade in tow. Sherlock was seated in his chair, lost in contemplation – John and company had retired home several hours earlier.

"Your minion is ensconced with Molly in John's old room," Sherlock said to Mycroft by way of greeting, "I believe they're lacquering their nails if the giggling and fumes emanating from the room are any indicator." He gestured for Lestrade to pull up a chair when Mycroft sat in John's old chair.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, "She likes your pathologist."

A hint of a smile curved Sherlock's mouth before he flicked his eyes over at Lestrade, "This is delightfully domestic, brother dear but shouldn't DI Lestrade be with the Watsons?"

Lestrade sighed heavily, handing Sherlock a clear plastic bag full of materials. "I'll be going there shortly, I promised Anderson," Sherlock glanced up at him at the mention of the forensic expert, "that I'd bring that to start you."

Sherlock reached over, pulling a small card table over in front of him and dumped the contents onto its surface. His deft fingers scattered the items, examining them and discarding them randomly. His brow furrowed as he picked up the memory stick, "Odd that hired muscle would have a USB drive." He stood, walked over to the table which was littered with papers and pulled out a laptop.

As he started the laptop, Mycroft asked, "Is that wise?"

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh, his voice droll as he explained, "I keep this one for dangerous tasks – it lacks a network card, no modem – all outside access has been removed."

Mycroft shifted in his seat, leaning forward to watch his younger sibling, "And if the purpose is to transmit data?"

Sherlock sighed again, "Dull. If its purpose is to transmit data, we'll see some semblance of an error message." As the laptop flashed to life, he sat down and slipped the memory stick into a USB port. After a moment, a small black window appeared on the screen and a script ran almost too fast for Sherlock to read and a small error window appeared before the screen blanked and the laptop rebooted. Sherlock watched with rapt attention as the laptop ran through its system BIOS and tried to start the computer, he was hardly surprised when the screen stayed black, cursor blinking at him mockingly. "Now isn't _that_ interesting," he observed.

"It wiped the drive," Mycroft stated, puzzled, "what could be so important that they would break into the morgue, attempt to abscond with the pathologist and then delete the hard-drive of some unspecified computer."

Sherlock blinked, staring at the computer for a moment before rushing to his feet and pacing at rapid speed up the stair to John's old room. She sat on the bed, cotton stuffed between toes, laughing at something Anthea had said. She paused when she noticed him, her smile fading when she saw the expression on his face, "What is it, Sherlock?"

"The computer in your office," he asked, "How many people have access to it?"

She closed her eyes for a moment, lost in thought, "Myself, Mike Stamford, the other four pathologists that regularly work out of the morgue." She paused, her eyes snapping open, "Technically four orderlies and then cleaning staff." She blinked, "This isn't about me. This was all about the computer."

He nodded slightly, inclining his head to the right, "Possibly, but doubtful, you're part of this as well. If I'm right, there was something on the computer that they desperately wanted to destroy or control." He leaned against the door jamb, his eyes distant as he thought through several different possibilities. _This could prove to be totally unrelated to the Moriarty video, opportunism at its finest, _he thought before discarding it, _no, the timing was far to precise. The video aired at the exact time the plane taxied down the tarmac, the assault on Molly occurred at the same time. What could be on the computer that was so critical, _he mused.

"Autopsy reports," Molly said, when he focused on her and stared blankly, she explained, "You asked what was on the computer that was critical, autopsy reports. One set in paper, one in the hospital database and one in the morgue computer for backup."

"Mycroft," he called out, as he strode away, "we need to get someone to collect the computer at the morgue. England's safety could depend on it."

_This brings the story on fanfiction up to date with what's currenty posted on Ao3. I tend to post chapters there for a few days before updating here. As always, thanks go to HeayPuckett who beta reads for me._


	12. Chapter 12 - Mummy

Quiet had descended on 221B giving Mycroft Holmes a much needed opportunity to sit and think. Molly and Anthea had buttressed themselves into the quiet of John's former bedroom after Molly had claimed several large bowls from Sherlock's kitchen. If the scent of lemon and cucumber was anything to go by, they were attempting to use the time honoured tradition of having a facial to relieve stress.

With a sigh, he crossed the room and sat down in Sherlock's leather chair. Folding his fingers in a manner very similar to that of his younger brother, index fingers lighting tapping the tip of his nose, he focused on the painting of a skull adorning the wall opposite him.

He sat that way, oblivious to everything around him when his phone chirped. Thumbing the call answer button, he drawled, "Yes."

"_Mycroft_," Mummy'stone was curt, dry and utterly devoid of any warmth. _"What have you learned?"_

He looked at the stairway, making certain that Molly was still in the bedroom with Anthea, "Evidence to date indicates that either Moriarty or a minion is at play. While Dr. Hooper was a target, she appears to be a secondary one. The primary target was autopsy records."

There was a pause, _"Have ties to Moriarty been proven or are they assumed?"_

"At the moment, assumed," he admitted and before she had the opportunity to chastise him, remarked, "DI Lestrade has gone with Sherlock to collect the computer from the morgue – we'll have a better idea once we've looked at the records."

_"I expect you to keep me informed, Mycroft," she said simply, "Moriarty has twice tried to destroy this family and I won't stand for it, not again. I want to see a copy of that autopsy report when you have it."_

"We'll look it over and I'll contact you once we have more information, most likely by text."

_"Don't placate me, Mycroft, I'm retired not an imbecile. Send me the report as soon as you get it."_ With that she disconnected the call and Mycroft was left alone once again with his thoughts. He sat there, alone with his thoughts until Sherlock and Lestrade returned.


	13. Chapter 13 - Autopsy

The flat was enveloped in darkness when Sherlock returned with the morgue computer, one of Anderson's forensic lackeys assisting in carrying the parts up the stairs. After setting the computer on the table in the living area, he surveyed the room – taking in a dozing Mycroft on the sofa.

As tempting as it was to start the process, he was well aware of his limitations and those of his temporary housemates. The day had been exhausting, in more ways than one, so in this instance he conceded to the needs of the body and left for the sanctuary of his bedroom.

He closed the door slightly, following his standard 'night-time' routine – he changed into a set of cotton pyjamas, more for modesty than comfort and shrugged on a dressing gown. Flicking the light off, he settled himself into bed. Creature of habit as he was, he stared up at the ceiling for a few moments while he laced his fingers behind his head.

Alone with his thoughts for the first time since his four minute exile, he closed his eyes and contemplated the information that they were certain of. 'Fact: a video clip of Moriarty had taken over mass media in the UK. Fact: Molly Hooper was assaulted in the morgue. Fact: The timing of the video and the attack correlated directly to his supposedly secret departure time. Fact: the attacker possessed software that would cause a system wipe of a computer hard-drive after it had transmitted data.' He frowned to himself, considering the new data, finding out what data it was trying to transmit was imperative. His hands slapped the mattress in frustration, 'This doesn't make any sense, if this was Moriarty, why now?' He'd had a year since his return to move against Sherlock and there was no sense that he'd been involved in anything Magnussen had done. 'Something changed,' he thought to himself, 'and we have no idea what.' That wouldn't last, he was certain of it.  
When he woke, it was to the sounds of female laughter. Fisting sleep from his eyes, he drifted out into the kitchen only to stop and stare. Molly sat at the kitchen table which was devoid of science equipment. He realized then that he'd seen but hadn't registered his microscope on the table in the living area. She held a bone china tea cup in her hand, sipping at the liquid, eyes filmed over in bliss.  
Anthea stood at the stove, with some kitchen implement in her hand and she appeared to be cooking… omelettes?

If Molly's rumpled state was unexpected, she was a veritable sea of normal compared to Anthea. Mycroft's personal minion looked nothing like her normal well-turned out self – her hair was piled high in a tight slightly bouncy pony-tail, she was wearing what appeared to be yoga pants and a cotton short-sleeve shirt in an intense azure blue not unlike the colour of her eyes. She glanced at him and smirked, "Relax, Sherlock, all your experiments are preserved in a box – Molly put them in the hall cupboard. Cheese omelette?" He couldn't recall having eggs in his refrigerator and she laughed, "God no, I messaged for someone to pick up basics from Tesco – there's no way I'm eating anything in that," she gestured at the aforementioned fridge.

"Tea?" Molly asked, hiding her amusement at the sight of Sherlock somewhat befuddled. Taking his hand wave as a yes, Molly rose and handed him a cup of tea. His eyes blinked as he took a sip, savouring the smokey flavour of the tea. "Lapsang souchang," she murmured, "not quite a cigarette but it might help clear the cobwebs.

He nodded, obscuring his smile with the cup as he enjoyed what was probably his favourite tea. While he doubted Molly knew, he was certain that Anthea did – given his brother's propensity to drink the stuff himself. He half-listened as he ate, apparently he'd slept through an impromptu training session in his living area which explained the attire that they were both wearing. Killing one's attacker apparently didn't buy you any reprieve from Anthea's training regime and he was reminded once again of how grateful he was for her initiative when it came to Molly's defense.

He left them to clean up the kitchen given that they were obviously more minded to it. If it turned out that they were required to stay here for a while, they were all better served with a tidy kitchen. Takeaway, while easier, was easily tampered with. He moved into the living area, his dressing gown tangling around him as he slumped down into the chair and took another mouthful of tea before setting about putting the computer together.

After a few moments, the computer was up and running, a login window staring back at him. "Molly," he called, "If I could have your assistance here." Molly crossed over to him, looking at the screen before leaning over and typing in her user id and password.

"Not going to be able to access St. Bart's from here," she commented, "closed network."

He nodded, "Yes, that's to be expected but you have copies of all your autopsies on this unit, correct?"

"Yea," she considered, "I suppose you want to see his?"

"Yes," he murmured, "there has to be some sort of clue there." When he had started speaking, she moved deftly, opening directories until she opened an autopsy file. With that done, she moved away, commenting that she was going to go change. He glanced up, nodding before turning his attention to the file.

The file was quite complete, as he'd come to expect of an autopsy performed by Molly Hopper. She notated details with precision, included were pictures of the body, audio files on the extent of the injuries and notes stating the intent to forward DNA samples to Mycroft for comparison.

"She did, you know." He heard Mycroft murmur from over his left shoulder. So engrossed in the file, he hadn't noticed his brother's arrival. "I had our lab compare her sample to the sample we had from James' stay with us, they matched. I don't see how he can be alive."

"He can't be," Molly stated simply as she sat down in John's chair, her feet tucked up under her arse. She sipped at another cup of tea, "Logistically, it just can't be him. Excluding the brain trauma which was extensive…"

"How extensive, Molly? Could he have faked it?"

"No," she stated simply, "He had no pulse; he was dead on my slab for hours, Sherlock. While people have survived brain trauma, his injuries were too severe. The bullet transected the brain – the thalamus was practically destroyed by the bullet, not to mention the shock waves called by the bullet track." She paused, her voice soft and sad, "His brain was a mess when I removed it to examine the trauma, there's no way you come back from that."

He stood to go help himself to another cup of tea, scarcely noting that Mycroft had slipped into his vacated seat. "Why destroy an autopsy that doesn't matter? Why impersonate a dead man? This doesn't make any sense!" he burst out, gesticulating wildly.

"No," he heard Mycroft murmur, "it doesn't."


	14. Chapter 14 - Stranger than Fiction

As Sherlock and Molly discussed the finer details of the autopsy, Mycroft sent a copy of the autopsy to his mobile and then sent that file on to Mummy.

He was hardly surprised when his mobile chimed her distinctive text alert. Glancing at his mobile, he stared in shock. It read simply, **Mycroft, he's still alive.**

Shaken to the core, he kept his expression carefully blank as he sent back. 'Impossible. The trauma indicates he is most definitely dead, DNA match confirms it.'

After a moment, she replied, **I'm sorry, dear. The man on the autopsy table is most certainly dead but I assure you, that is not James Moriarty, regardless of what he looks like. I'll be sending someone well versed with this to you, I expect you and your brother will be angry with me for some time.**

Mycroft slammed his fist on the table in an uncharacteristic display of fury, Sherlock spun on his heel to stare at his brother. 'Explain!' He typed furiously.

**You'll understand soon, Mycroft, take care of your brother.**

"What's going on, Mycroft," Sherlock asked. His baritone was particularly low, a sure indicator of his stress level.

Mycroft glanced up at him, his smile as sharp as a razor, "It would appear that Mummy has been keeping secrets."

After Mycroft's uncharacteristic display of fury, he lapsed into total silence for several minutes. For almost the entirety of Sherlock's adult life, Mycroft had been a veritable font of calm when chaos swirled around him – this fury, directed at their Mummy of all people, was unprecedented. The silence dragged on for seemed like an eternity, Sherlock keeping watch as Mycroft dealt with his inner demons.

"Mummy's little pronouncement necessitates an explanation," Mycroft said abruptly, his dark blue eyes coming back into sudden focus. Glancing over his shoulder to where his assistant sat, her rapt attention appeared to be on the ever present mobile, "Anthea, do be a dear and prepare us some tea. I fear this shall take a while."


	15. Chapter 15 - Epiphany

The aide rose from her chair, gave a brisk nod and set about to work in the kitchen. When she started to fill a kettle, Mycroft said simply, "This goes back to the day of Sherrinford's accident." Not the pronouncement that Sherlock had expected, the detective sat forward to study his brother as Mycroft stood and straightened his suit, then began to pace about the flat. Never one for an abundance of nervous energy, Mycroft paused, a tremendous sigh leaving him. "I have no wish to talk about that day, we never talk about it but today there is simply no way to avoid it." He extracted his mobile, keyed in a message in a flurry and then waited, with no response.

When Mycroft made no sign of continuing, Sherlock prompted him as he did so many of his clients, "Start at the beginning, leave nothing out."

Mycroft closed his eyes, and for a moment, the ice thawed – briefly but visibly, "Nothing was easy that day, Sherlock, and nothing has been easy since." His steel blue eyes lost focus for moment, then he was abruptly all business, "Officially, it was an accident. It was a bomb, Sherlock," Mycroft nodded when Sherlock face registered surprise, "You were in University, then you were – well, there was no need for you to know otherwise. The bomber was never caught, no surprise really, there were a lot of bombings in those days."

Sherlock's rich baritone was smooth, betraying no hint of his emotions, as he murmured, "You were uninjured."

"Pure happenstance," Mycroft stated, "Certain, logistical demands, had required me to stay at the office. I was notified of the explosion immediately, it happened a scant half mile from where our offices were at the time. I cannot even remember the ride to the accident site, just the utter mess of it. Two cars, almost completely obliterated – the paramedics were already working on those that had survived the blast when I arrived, Lestrade was mere minutes behind me.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock said, startled. To cover his shock, he reached for his mobile, typing a quick _'Mycroft is in a fury, whatever have you done, Mummy?' _No response.

Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward as he accepted a cup of tea from Anthea, hardly noting the gentle pat of assurance she gave his shoulder or the knowing look she gave Sherlock. "Do you persist in the belief that blind luck had a Detective Sergeant in Homicide just happen upon you when you were high? Really? Yet you pride yourself on supposedly being intelligent." When Sherlock smirked at him, Mycroft shrugged his shoulders slightly, "Lestrade was Sherrin's liaison with the Met and he has been a friend, a true friend for years."

Not knowing quite what to say at first, Sherlock nodded briskly as he rose from his seat to walk to the side table where Anthea had placed an extra cup and the teapot. After a moment, he smiled, "Of that, I have no doubt. And how does Mummy figure into this?"

Mycroft exhaled noisily, sitting down again, holding his teacup like a talisman in front of him. "I contacted her straight away, of course, imagine my surprise when she showed up with a passel of MI6 bristling about her. It turned out that she had held the post long before Sherrin or I ever thought of entering government." He laughed, a short amused laugh, "We all thought she worked in the steno pool whilst she was effectively running the British government."

Sherlock smiled despite himself, "I would expect that corralling the four of us did provide certain on the job training." When Mycroft frowned slightly, Sherlock continued, "She trained you."

"Yes," he agreed, "All the things that Sherrinford hadn't the time to do, Mummy stepped in, took over until she deemed that I could do the job to her complete satisfaction and then she retreated back to the cottage. She told me that she had taught me everything she knew," he paused, his brows furrowed, "it would appear that she lied about that." Mycroft sent off another message, with the same result – no response.

"She must have switched it off," Sherlock muttered, suddenly annoyed with his brother, his mother and the population of Greater London, "she's not responding to any of my texts either."

"Do tell!" Mycroft snapped in irritation, "Why on earth you would think otherwise is beyond me." When Sherlock glared at him petulantly, Mycroft spoke as if to a child, "Do credit her with some semblance of intelligence, Sherlock. After that little cryptic text bomb, would _you _leave your mobile on?"

"I'm rather adept at ignoring your texts, brother mine," Sherlock quipped. "Regardless, now we have the puzzle of that text…"

Mycroft leaned back into the comfort of John's chair, his fingers clasped below his chin, "In the fourteen years that I have dealt with Mummy in any sort of professional capacity, I have yet to coax a single thing from her before she intended me to." He lifted his tea cup and saluted his brother, "We shall simply have to wait until this source of hers is revealed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and fell down into his chair much like a marionette with cut strings, "What shall it be, then? Operation or Risk?"

* * *

The battle raged for over an hour and a half, with Sherlock capturing a fair sized chunk of Europe and Asia from his brother when he heard the tell-tale sound of a car pulling up in front of 221B Baker Street. He glanced at his brother before standing and moving over to the window to peer at the scene below.

His mother was clearly taking no risks with this source of hers – two black government cars idled in front of the building. As he watched, a sizeable security detail extracted itself from one of the cars and the agents scurried to secure the street and the area around the door before one lone figure emerged from the second car. Any observations about the figure would have to wait, as her appearance was obscured by a large, if somewhat fashionable, azure hat. Sherlock flicked a glance over his brother and shrugged delicately. He crossed to the door, opening it slightly before moving to take his regular place in his chair and then he paused for a moment to settle himself mentally and physically. Mycroft had not been idle, he had apparently issued instructions and Anthea had removed the used cups and teapot and appeared to be brewing another pot of tea.

A single knock on the door announced their visitor before one of the agents, clad in the ubiquitous black suit that appeared to be the unofficial uniform of MI6, stepped into the room. His gaze was curiously blank, he studied to the two men gazing back at him before stepping further into the room. As he did so, another agent moved to take up position at the door as the first agent moved into the kitchen to survey the room. Satisfied with what he saw, he nodded to his counterpart who gave his head a half-turn and nodded. After a moment, their guest entered the room and the agents left, closing the door behind them. They were posted outside the closed door, of that Sherlock was sure.

She moved forward, her awkward gait carrying further into the room as she crossed over to where a lone wood chair sat facing the two brothers. She took another step closer, _unsteady on her feet, _Sherlock noted. _She is above average height for a woman at approximately 170 centimeters in bare feet, flat shoes – loafers. How interesting._ A large blue straw hat left her features hidden shadows and her hair appeared to be cut in a short blonde bob. She wore large sunglasses that covered most of her face and it took everything Sherlock had not to laugh out at the absurdity of it. If there was an outfit that screamed "I'm a spy", this was it.

She shuffled, apparently nervous before asking, "May I sit? Please?"_ Another surprise, _he thought,_ American. No. Canadian. What the devil is Mummy doing with the Canadians and what does this have to do with Moriarty?_ Ever the gallant, Sherlock stood and went to the table, selecting one of the more comfortable cushions and set it firmly on the chair before her before gesturing for her to take a seat. She gave him a small smile, sitting with obvious relief. She waited until he was seated again before saying, "Yes, she said this is a test of sorts. What do you see, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft who shrugged elegantly, clearly conceding the floor to his brother. Sherlock inclined his head slightly to the left, one eyebrow quirked before demanding, "Take off that ridiculous hat." The removal of the hat confirmed several of his suspicions, the blonde hair is an obvious wig, a hint of ivory skin near her ear indicated that the soft sand tone of her skin was courtesy of cosmetics. "The disguise wasn't necessary; we have much large concerns, Ms?"

She smiled, perfect white teeth flashing, "Smith, for the moment." She reached up to smooth the fall of her wig and a hint of metal flashed on one of her hands before it was hidden again as she folded her hands in her lap. "You assume the disguise is for your benefit."

"Fair assessment," he murmured, his voice deceptive soft, "A wager then, if I tell you what I see, you'll explain Mummy's text." When she nodded, he said, "Your hair is no more blonde than mine and that skin tone is makeup, not nature and definitely not sun-kissed. You've taken measures to change the shape of your face, though why, I have no idea. Scarring perhaps? Cheek pouches, it affects your speech. Your accent sounds at first as if it was American but it's not, Canadian. There's a hint of England still and no American would have that unless they were faking it or they were expats. You wear a heavy wool suit, attractive, but it's much too warm for early April so you come from somewhere where you are obviously used to cooler temperatures than what London currently has. Trousers, not a skirt and you limp slightly which suggests you have an injury that could identify you to certain people." When she smiled, he said with a shrug, "Just a first impression."

"A good one," she conceded, "Mostly correct. I live in north-eastern Ontario; forgive me if I don't say exactly where. Yes, I was injured, in the line of duty and yes, it's the cause of the limp. I owe this limp to one James Moriarty."

Mycroft leaned forward then, watching her carefully, "That gives the appearance of being an old injury, Ms. Smith."

She laughed, a rich low laugh and Sherlock startled for a moment. He knew that laugh, he was sure of it, he simply couldn't place it. "You might say that," she agreed, "It's an old one and yet still a very new one." She turned her attention back to Sherlock, "You believe that Moriarty is dead, you've been functioning under erroneous assumptions."

"I doubt that," Sherlock retorted, stung, "I've had extensive dealings with the man."

Whether it was annoyance or nerves, her hands finally moved into view – they were fine boned, elegant hands, adorned only with a single diamond ring on her left hand ring finger. It was a simple ring, a working man's ring, and its existence was a contradiction to the picture she presented. The ring was pure sentiment and there seemed to be no sentiment in her carefully presented façade. Removing her sunglasses, she set them in her lap before she met Sherlock's gaze. He didn't know why, but he was disappointed to see that her eyes were a dark brown. "You've never met the man," she said abruptly, twisting the ring on her finger. "Your 'James' is the younger brother – use to work in the rail industry if you can believe that. James Moriarty never liked the limelight, he always preferred to work through an intermediary or in the shadows and he is very good at it."

"You seem very certain," Mycroft said softly.

"I am. The James Moriarty I knew did specialty work in the late 80s and 90s, he was born in Dublin in 1962 – Irish father, English mother. I was his control."

* * *

They sat in companionable silence as Anthea served tea in elegant Wedgwood cups with a simple silver rim and Sherlock blinked for a moment before remembering where and when he had acquired the fine china. Keeping his gaze on his own tea, he watched her from the corner of his eye – there was something in the back of his mind screaming at him but he couldn't place it.

Taking a sip of tea, he noted that Anthea had once again defaulted to his favourite tea and he smirked into his cup when Mycroft let a small sigh escape his lips. Their guest's reaction to their favourite pine-smoked black tea was not one he expected, she had added a small amount of milk to the cup (no sugar), brought the tea to her lips and had inhaled deeply. Her soft sigh of pleasure had been almost inaudible over Mycroft's but Sherlock had noted it. _'Not a type of tea common in Canada, I should think.'_

She had enjoyed a mouthful of tea and was preparing to continue when the door of 221B opened and a somewhat annoyed Lestrade stood there, glaring at the detective while being barred entry by two of the agents.

"Oi, mate, tell your goons to let me pass," he called out to Mycroft. One of the guards had glanced over at Mycroft who gave a nod and then let go of Lestrade, he stumbled into the room, turning to glare at the men in the hallway before closing the door firmly behind him.

He turned back to face them, about to say something to Sherlock when he stopped stock still. His focus shifted to Ms. Smith, or specifically her hands. She stared at him, the cup frozen midway to her lips. Sherlock stood abruptly when Lestrade strode over to the woman, falling to his knees in front of her. To their shock, he reached up, took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her lips, wrapping her in his embrace. The china tea cup fell from her nerveless fingers as she clung to the Detective Inspector.

"Oh holy hell," Mycroft whispered, clearly stunned, "Sherrinford."

**Notes:**

I know, another cliffhanger - please don't hate me. I hope that you've enjoyed the story so far and that I'm not letting you down. I have another 5 chapters written and it looks like we have another three or four after that before this story is done.

The song for this chapter was Stockholm Syndrome by Muse.


	16. Chapter 16 - Penance

WARNING: TRIGGER ALERT - SERIOUS INJURIES/TRAUMA

There will be a graphic description of the injuries sustained by Sherrinford in the blast, if this is a trigger, do not read.

* * *

Mind whirling like a dervish, Sherlock had no doubt in his mind that Mycroft was correct, they were looking at a living, breathing Sherrinford Holmes and though a part of him wanted to pitch a small fit at the moment, he choked it down viciously. When Mycroft moved forward to interrupt the couple that remained oblivious to their presence, Sherlock stepped in front of his brother and stopped him.

"Leave them be a moment," he said with a level of calm that he in no way felt, "regardless of how we feel, this cannot have been easy for her." He glanced over to where the couple remained, held tight in each other's embrace; his sister's eyes were closed tight, silent tears making a ruin of her makeup. "Them," he corrected, he could barely hear Lestrade's voice, low, urgent but far too quiet to make out exactly what he was saying, "Spare her your anger, we have a much better target for that."

Mycroft gained visible control of his emotions as he quirked a brow, "The voice of reason, Sherlock? Not your strong suit."

Sherlock nodded with a smirk, "As one who has returned from the dead after a lengthy exile, I gained certain… perspective."

"Really," Mycroft drawled, his eyes locked on his sister as if memorizing her, "Enlighten me."

Sherlock glanced over to where Anthea stood; he met her gaze and said simply, "Loving a Holmes is painful, for all parties. We plan for all contingencies but who plans for them."

Mycroft stepped away from him, a sneer flicking across his face, "Where was this lofty view when you shot Magnusson?"

Sherlock sat down, glancing up at his brother, "You always say that caring is a disadvantage, Mycroft but look at our sister. Truly look at her and see that never, not ever, would she say that to you. I understood that viewpoint when I shot Magnusson – no one was safe while he lived and breathed and if my freedom was the price to be paid, so be it. Now sit down and drink your tea."

Moments ticked into minutes before Sherrinford pulled away from Lestrade, her fingers tracing the curve of his jaw before she addressed them, "You are kinder than I deserve, you undoubtedly have questions – I'll answer them as best I can." The accent she'd affected was gone, in its place the public school tones he remembered. "Before we start, well, I have a few requests, nothing major."

Sherlock nodded sagely, "A new chair?"

Her smile was warm and amused, "I do suppose an uncomfortable chair would make clients much more inclined to brief explanations of their case." When the faint trace of a smile ghosted across his lips, she said softly, "Also, if you would be so kind to ask one of my keepers to bring up my travel bag, I would appreciate, nay, love to change and repair the disaster that is my 'disguise'."

Retrieving an elegant Queen Anne's chair from his bedroom, he brought it into the living area and at the table below the bison skull. His search for a proper sized mirror had proven problematic until he remembered the elaborate mirror he'd purchased from an antiques shop with the plan to give it to his mother for her birthday. The 'Fall' had put an end to that plan but it was just the thing in this case.

Lestrade was talking to Mycroft when he returned to the living area, a slightly haunted expression on his face. _So many questions, _Sherlock thought as he handed the mirror to his sister. _Yes,_ he thought to himself, _'Going to take some time to getting used to saying that again'. _He fully expected Mummy to be ghastly when it came to holiday invites and his expression hardened.

The faintest of touches drew his attention back to Sherrinford; she was watching him with those utterly alien brown eyes. '_Coloured contacts, obviously!' _he chided was that touch again, the merest tap of a perfectly shaped finger nail. He met her gaze and arched a brow, "Let it go for now, it's a distraction, nothing more."

With a slightly annoyed sigh, he gave his agreement and slipped into the kitchen to search for another teacup. Before he had the chance to get more than a pace away, Mycroft coughed, pointing with one talon-like finger at the tea service. Anthea had been busy while they'd been dealing with their personal demons – a full tea service, scones (_where had she found scones?_) and a plate of biscuits sat on a side table placed conveniently for Mycroft's reach.

He listened with scant interest as Mycroft and Lestrade talked freely in front of him for the first time that he could remember, he wondered how much their feigned indifference had cost them over the years. Instead of their conversation, he focused on the woman at the table as she pulled items out of a nylon travel bag that showed a tremendous amount of wear. Several plastic containers were removed, from which she extracted a smaller plastic tub, a brush as well as what appeared to be a simple cosmetic bag. She plucked the blonde wig from her head to reveal a mesh cap which proved to be a wig cap. When the cap was removed, her hair proved to be the same dark mahogany that had intrigued him as a child, dark in the shadows but a burnished sanguine in the sun. She had always seemed to be the middle point between the brothers, neither light nor dark but rather a combination of both. Reaching behind her head, she removed one blue hair elastic and the length of her hair spilled across her shoulders and down her back. Using brush and comb, she set about to restoring her hair to some mental standard before letting it flow around her face.

Her task complete, she set down the brush and turned her attention to the plastic tub. The delicate scent of baby powder wafted in the air as she extracted a wipe from the container, something that surprised him.

She glanced up at him and smiled, "We exiles have to be frugal. Best makeup wipes on the market if the smell doesn't bother you," she explained. Starting at her hair line, she wiped her face in circles, removing the heavy makeup. When she reached the right side of her face, his attention was drawn to a section of skin that was a different tone, a bright pink, shinier than the skin on the left. She cleared her throat, "This is the least of it, Sherlock," her voice was velvet soft, "the injuries to my face and neck were some of the easiest to heal. There's a reason I grew my hair to this length, it hides a lot of sins. You'll need to see it all if you're to understand why I hid."

Her hands never stilled, removing all the makeup from her face, neck and the décolletage visible. The eyebrow on the left was missing the portion on the edge near the bottom of the eye socket, _Burned, _he thought. The scarring continued down to the ear on that side, extending down to her collarbone. There were minute droplets of shiny pink skin scattered across the top of her chest like inverse freckles.

Reaching into one of the bins she pulled out a bottle of what looked like high end professional makeup – he'd had cause to use something similar on a case – and began to carefully hide the scars. Makeup was something he had an appreciation for, the alchemy of pigments magically transforming and changing what was beneath. She applied precious little makeup other than that needed to conceal her scars, a little pencil to even out the eyebrow, a touch of lip pencil to hide the scar at the corner of her lip. With that task complete, she tidied up quickly, put her things away only to roll her eyes and pull out a small container, a contact case. Removing the contacts, she winked at him, eyes so much like his own – that unique shade of cadet blue with flecks of green and gold that swirled like mercury glass net floats.

"A pity your friend the doctor isn't here," she commented as she put everything away and pulled out a simple short sleeved cotton shirt and shook out what appeared to be a very short skirt.

"Why would that be?" Mycroft asked.

"He would be able to explain what you're about to see, I suppose I shall have to do my layman's best," she explained.

"No," Sherlock said firmly, "We don't need to treat your injuries, we just need it explained and who better than Molly Hooper."

A faint tap on the door was all the warning Molly had before the door to John's former bedroom opened. Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. He went to speak, paused and then sighed before he stepped into the room.

To her surprise, he walked over to the bed on which she was sprawled, sitting down at the far end near where her feet kicked the air. "It has been a strange twenty-four hours, Molly, I have no doubt that John will likely give me no small amount of hell about this but I have a request of you." Her gaze met his, she quirked her head to the side, her chin tilting up slightly as she set the book face down on the bed and waited, "It seems I'm not the only Holmes to return from the dead. My sister," he nodded when her eyes went round in surprise, "Yes, I had, have, an older sister. The whole sordid mess goes back years and we haven't really gotten all the details yet, she's Mummy's source and it would appear she was injured some time ago quite badly."

Molly stared at him for a moment, "John is a better choice…"

"No," he disagreed, "the injuries are old, the result of a bomb. Mycroft and I need to understand what kind of trauma she went through. You should also know that it appears that Lestrade was more than just friends with my sister."

She blinked at him, "I always thought you and he knew each other for years…"

He shook his head, dark curls tumbling as he said, "Years, yes, but no, I never knew, I don't think Mycroft really knew – suspected, but never had confirmation of it. This will change things."

"What things?" she asked as he stood. He turned, offering her a hand up when she twisted herself up into a sitting position.

"For a start, practically everything I should think."

There was no sign of Sherrinford when Sherlock returned to the living area with a visibly curious Molly Hooper in tow. Molly smiled over at Greg Lestrade who sat by himself over on the sofa, trying to look as if his whole world hadn't been torn asunder.

Molly gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze, her eyes glancing over at Lestrade and then back. She gave him a faint smile and then walked over to Lestrade and sat down beside him. She gave Lestrade an impulsive half-hug, one he returned briefly before stating simply, "This has been a hell of a day thus far, Mol."

"We've had worse, ya?"

He chuckled, a knowing smile curving his lips, "That we have." He inhaled sharply, "This is buggered up proper." He gestured with his chin at Mycroft, "His Nibs over there almost went all protective brotherly on me earlier but Sherlock… Sherlock of all people intervened." The detective, clearly listening to their low whispers chuckled, and Lestrade continued, "We have a lot to talk about."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, as he looked down at the tea service. "Is it too much to ask for coffee?"

A sharp bark of laughed sounded in the kitchen, then Anthea came out with a mug in her hand and handed it to Sherlock. She then crossed to Mycroft and held out her hand. "You can't be serious," the British government said in a frosty tone. The full effect of her dimples was levelled at him and he sighed, "All right." He stood, extracted his billfold. "How much was it?"

Anthea laughed, flicking Sherlock a knowing smile, "A fiver, I believe, sir."" Mycroft handed over a ten pound note with a wave of his hand, as if he hadn't anything as lowly as a five. She paused as she was about to step into the kitchen, "The kettle is full as is the teapot. There's a full pot of coffee on the counter. If you have no need of me for the moment, I would like to catch a nap." Mycroft nodded and she left without further comment.

They were chatting comfortably, Mycroft ignoring them whilst he read messages on his mobile when Sherlock heard the sound of the bathroom door open. As Sherrinford stepped out into the hallway, he was the only one who could see her and for one moment, his mind went blank with horror. He managed to keep his features neutral but he couldn't keep the totality of his shock from his eyes. Her expression was grave as she said, "Don't turn around, Mycroft. Not yet."

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and blinking them furiously, Sherlock said, "You should have told us straight away, I would never have made you sit…"

Mycroft's breath stuck in his throat and a single tear rolled down Lestrade's face when she finally stepped out into the living area clad in a simple sport brassiere and a brief pair of shorts. If Sherlock had thought that the left side of her face was marred by pink burns, the skin of her torso was positively livid with them. The sheer volume of scarring made it hard to tell what was burn, what was shrapnel damage and what was surgical. The scars extended up under the sports bra and down to under the shorts. If her abdomen was a study in pain, nothing prepared them for the reality of her legs. The reality was an almost total lack of them.

Her left leg ended mid-thigh with a stump that slipped into a well-padded, polymer sleeve, what appeared to be stainless steel knee constructs and resin calf, the foot hidden by her shoe. The right leg was also artificial, ending at the knee. Sherlock had perceived a slight limp; he sat in quiet awe at how she had almost completely hidden all sign of this injury. Seeing the extent of her injuries he had no doubt now as to why his mother had hidden her survival – it had never been sure and Mummy didn't gamble with important things.

Silence reigned supreme for several moments before Molly stood abruptly, stepping forward to hold her hand out to the other woman, business-like. "I'm Molly Hooper," she said by way of introduction, "I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's."

Sherlock's sister smiled at her and Molly was startled as eyes so like Sherlock's, yet so warm, met hers, "Sherrinford Holmes, Dr. Hooper."

Molly shook her head suddenly as she asked "Your mother really didn't believe in making life easy, didn't she?"

To her amazement, Sherrinford looked over at Sherlock and burst out laughing and he smiled with unsuppressed mirth. "A fair question, and no, Mummy really didn't have anything against us. We did it to ourselves in a way."

"Speak for yourself," Mycroft drawled.

His sister laughed, "Country squires are a traditional lot which means traditional names – the same ones trotted out each generation. William," she murmured as she glanced at Sherlock before her eyes flickered over to Mycroft, "Edmund," she laughed at Mycroft's snarl and then smiled, "Elizabeth. Like my Mum, my aunt and a cousin." She smiled as she shrugged, "Elizabeth Sherrinford Vernet Holmes is what they saddled me with. Mostly I go, went, by Sherrin. I chose Sherrinford since a certain brat took a liking to making references to Vernet being one step removed from vermin."

Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward and said in exasperation, "I was four!"

"You were an idiot," she retorted dryly.

"Was?" Sherlock countered.

Mycroft sniffed, looking down in nose at his brother, "I have not missed this part of sibling interaction."

Molly watched the three of them as they bantered, well aware that she was watching a coping mechanism unique to the Holmes family. Where others would cringe or cry, their response was as British as you could get. They made a joke, had a cuppa and got on with it – whatever 'it' was. The levity didn't disturb Molly; people who worked in the morgue often had the weirdest senses of humour.

"May I examine your arm?" Molly asked and then went about the work of cataloguing the myriad of pains that overwhelmed the other woman's body. Through it all, Lestrade sat on the sofa, his expression a mystery as he listened to them banter while Molly continued in her recitation of injuries. When she was finally done, Lestrade snapped to his feet and the Holmes siblings turned their focus on him. He took a breath, stepped towards Sherrin. Molly startled as Lestrade stepped up and into her personal space but he was in no way paying any attention to her. Taking Sherrin's face in his hands, he placed a kiss on her brow and in a voice thick with emotion said simply, "This changes nothing. We're still having that talk." He released her, stepped back and spoke to Sherlock without looking at him directly, "I have work to do, some personal stuff to clear up and I'll be back." He turned then, looking at the man he'd spent years working with, watching over for this woman in front of him, "If you let her go, I'm going to be wickedly pissed."

"No fear of that, Greg," Sherlock assured him, "She'll be staying." Lestrade nodded and then left the flat without a look back. It was a sign of Lestrade's state of mind that he didn't notice Sherlock's correct usage of his name.

* * *

Notes:

I'm currently writing what is either the last or second last chapter - I haven't updated even though there are several chapters written because I didn't want you to sit there waiting for the end chapter for what seemed like an eternity. Since it's going well, updates should be more regular. Thank you for being patient with me, thank you to the anon who caught the typo - yes, I'm aware her name is Hooper. My bad.

The song for this chapter is the Concrete Blonde's version of the Leonard Cohen song Everybody Knows.


	17. Chapter 17 - Consequences

Some choices you make for your yourself, some are practically made for you...

* * *

Lestrade stepped onto the pavements of Baker Street, surveying the area around him and though his mind was whirling like a dervish, he gave no sign of it. Everything that had happened in the last thirty-six hours had been wiped from his mind in an instant the moment he realized that the blonde woman was wearing his grandmother's engagement ring. He knew rationally he should be angry or at the very least annoyed but he just couldn't seem to work up the energy for it. He had looked into the altered face of the first woman he'd ever loved and had felt one thing – relief. She was alive and for the first time in over a decade, there was a possibility, maybe a small one, but a possibility nonetheless for some semblance of contentment.

Glancing across the street, he noted that there were officers from the Met stationed on the street and one of them was minding his car. He glanced back up at the windows of 221B, pulled his coat tight around him against the wind and strode to his car. The first thing on his agenda was to head home and to pack a bag and head over to the Watson's house for the evening. Time enough to work through everything grinding through his brain when he was counting dots on the ceiling tiles because he was damn sure not going to be getting much sleep – of that, he was certain.

He smiled to himself when he spotted two police cars on the street in front of his house, noting with pride the attention that the constables were paying to the job. He pulled his car in front of the house and was surprised to see Donovan exit one of the cars and walk up to him. "Didn't expect to see you here, sir," she said simply.

Shrugging his shoulders slightly, "Need to pick up a few things – going to stay with the Watson's for a few nights until we know what in Christ is going on." When she nodded sagely, he stopped and studied her for a moment. Her hands were tucked into the pockets and her shoulders were hunched in slightly as if against the wind (which was quite calm at the moment). One good solid look at his detective sergeant and he knew, without a doubt, that she was stalling him. "How long has he been in there?" he asked, "Do you know who it is?"

She shook her head vigorously, hunching even smaller, "Nah, no idea, sir. Just saw a flurry of activity upstairs when I pulled in a few minutes ago. Freak messaged, suggested that you should have extra coverage for a while." She grimaced then, "Figured you'd want to give them a few minutes so that you're not blinded by it all."

His eyes flicked from her to the house, "Thanks for the kindness, Sally," he stared at the door of the house, "See to it that a detail stays here to watch over her for the next couple of days." He ran a hand through steel grey cropped hair, "I'll just be a moment."

With that he took a deep breath and strode into his house, but no longer his home, and prepared for the inevitable tears and recriminations. He entered the house as per his norm, neither quiet nor loud, and made his way up to the bedroom. There was no sign of his wife's paramour and he wondered for a moment if she'd pushed him out a window before he gave himself a mental shake and as he walked to the closet, she practically dove across the bed to stop him.

_One day_, he thought, _what a difference a day can make._ Closing his eyes as he took a steadying breath, he opened his eyes and looked over at his wife who was trying desperately to budge him. Softly, in a barely audible voice, he said, "The room smells of cheap aftershave and stale sex, Donovan didn't stall me long enough for you to fix the bed and your body is just screaming that he's in the closet." When her lips pressed themselves together and she stared at him as she waited for him to explode, he said, "Right, so here's how it goes. I'm going to gather some clothing, you're going to get me a suitcase out of the closet and then I'll pack and go."

"Greg, I…"

He shook his head at her as he moved to a dresser and extracted shirts, trousers and other items he was going to need. "Nah. Doesn't matter what you say about this. I have protection detail to do and frankly," he said, turning to look at her over his shoulder, "I'm just tired of this and I'm not doing it anymore."

Her voice was harsh, as she spat, "What do you mean you're not doing this? You haven't done this in months!"

He nodded, "Fair cop. Are you going to grab the bag or what?" As she spun on her heel to search the closet, he went into the bathroom and collected his toiletries. When he returned, she'd thrown papers from her solicitor on the bed beside his clothing and the suitcase – not the first time she'd taken this ploy. This was her pattern, one that he knew Sherlock thought he was unaware of. She had a formula, step one, cheat. Step two, arrange to be discovered. Step three; threaten divorce and all manner of hysteria when he packed to leave. Step four; plead, grovel and beg for the sake of the 'marriage'. Step five required that he act the fool by placating her with gifts and lavishing attention on her until she grew bored and repeated the cycle. He wondered for a moment if it was the same papers every time or if that's part of what she spent his pay on – a constant cycle of solicitor's fees. To her surprise, he picked up the papers, extracted a pen from his jacket pocket and signed the bloody things. Her cry of surprise cut off abruptly as he tossed the papers into the suitcase and zipped it up. She blocked his path as he moved to leave and he studied her for a moment and said, "Be happy, Margo, if you have any idea how to be." With that he brushed past her, the sounds of her wailing following him down the stairs and out of the house.

Donovan was still waiting outside the house when he emerged, leaning against her car as if she had nothing better to do. He set his bag in the boot and then said, "I'll be at the Watson's, have them call me if anything turns up."

She studied him for a moment, then glanced at the house and gave a tip of her chin, "What changed?" When he looked at her blankly, she said, "This isn't the first time you've been here, Lestrade, but it's the first time you've walked out of that house and not been bloody pissed. What changed?" Lestrade opened his mouth to answer and in that moment, the answer to everything was clear as day. Without answering, he jumped into his car and sped away, leaving her to stare open mouthed at the car**.**


	18. Chapter 18 - Changes

There'd never really been any question, not for Sherlock and certainly not for Mycroft, Sherrinford was staying at 221B with them. After Lestrade had left, Mycroft had extracted his mobile and begun to systematically rearrange things at 221B, temporarily, of course. Two well-appointed Queen Anne's chairs had been delivered to the flat against Sherlock's wishes. Sherlock's sofa had been banished to 221C and replaced with a much nicer pull-out sofa with fat plush comfortable pillows. The bed in John's room had been removed and replaced with a trundle-bed and Mycroft was by all appearances preparing for the long haul.

When it became obvious that jet-lag was getting the better of her, Sherlock had risen, gripped his sister by the elbow and carefully propelled her into his bedroom. He ignored her protests, disregarded Mycroft's glare entirely and closed the door firmly. Moving her to the edge of the bed, he stepped over to his dresser and extracted one of his dressing gowns. Handing it to her, he said softly, "We're missing something, Sherrinford. Sooner or later, one of us is going to piece it together. It's obvious that you're exhausted and that simply won't do. You need to rest."

She sat down on the mattress, eyes firmly on the floor, "Sherly, you and Myc, you've both been so very kind and…" her shoulders slumped, "I hurt you both so very badly."

He crouched down, his long fingers tipping her chin up so he could look her in the eyes, "There are so many questions and no time for them." He studied her for a moment, "Just answer one, how long?" When she stared at him, he asked again, "After the bombing, how long before you regained consciousness? How long before you could make your own decisions?"

Long elegant fingers twisted the dressing gown in her hands, eyes distant, looking off into the past "I was told that I was in a coma for fifteen months. It was almost two years before I regained any semblance of truly being awake."

He nodded, his hands coming to rest on her forearms, "Even had you come home as soon as you awoke, it would have been far too late. No," he reassured her, "if you hurt us, it was only by your absence and was not a choice of your own making."

Black lashes veiling her eyes, her voice low, "Mummy did what she thought best to protect me."

Whatever warmth she saw in her brother's face was erased by that statement; in that instant a very different man than the one she'd known crouched before her. She'd heard others describe him as cold – the type of harsh cold that burns in its fury. Concern for him had her reaching out to touch his face, he flinched away for a moment – he stopped pulling away when he saw the hurt and regret in her eyes. He rose, bending over to place a kiss on her brow as she'd done to him so many times when he was a boy. "It will keep until this particular case is over." The corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly, the merest trace of a smile as he quoted her own words to her, words she'd spoken over him a thousand times as a child, "Rest well, darling. Sleep makes angels of us all."

* * *

Returning to the living area, he sat off in the corner with the silence in the flat was eating at him, he longed to take his violin in hand and let the music eat away at the chaos in his thoughts but that was impossible. Never had his flat, his home, been so full – it was distracting. Molly was taking advantage of the lull by watching crap telly in John's room whereas Anthea had taken possession of the table in the living area and converted it into some slimmed down form of her desk. Mycroft had merely quirked a brow, shrugged and taken the seat opposite her – Sherlock expected that they were trying to find records of Moriarty from Sherrinford's time in the office.

Knees tucked up under his chin, he pondered their next course of action, his gaze levelled at some piece of equipment in the kitchen when he heard the door to 221B fly open. He was half prepared to stand when he recognized Lestrade's footfalls as he thundered up the stair and burst into the flat.

"Where's Sherrin?" he demanded as he scanned the flat.

"Asleep. What's happened?"

Lestrade smirked at him, "Might just be that I've figured part of this out." Sherlock leaned forward as Mycroft swivelled in his chair to turn his attention fully to Lestrade, "We've only been asking half the question - Why now?"

"The other?" Mycroft asked

Striding into the flat, Lestrade sat down in one of the new chairs, "What changed?" When Sherlock stared at him, Lestrade said, "Bloody geniuses, the lot of you, and you don't get it. To be fair, I didn't get it either and then Donovan asked me what changed and I saw it."

Mycroft and Sherlock shared a glance, before Mycroft asked, "Would you like me to go collect Dr. Hopper, so she might slap him a few times? It seems to work with you." At Sherlock's flat unfriendly stare, Mycroft shrugged and sighed, "Very well." He focused on Lestrade with a faint sneer, "You're speaking in circles, Gregory."

Lestrade released a frustrated sigh and then he reached into his coat, extracted some papers and handed them to Mycroft, "Before I forget, can you expedite that?" Mycroft's eyebrow arched as he glanced over the papers before he nodded and put them away. "Moriarty's image is all over the telly just as you're about to go off into exile. He decides to have his lackeys go into the morgue with a computer program that wasn't written overnight to steal unknown data. From all appearances, tries to kidnap Molly. He's ignored you for over a year, why now – what changed?" At Sherlock's blank look, Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, "How long does an international flight from Canada take to get here?"

Mycroft sat up straight, handing the papers he had been reading to Anthea, a keen look on his face, "Approximately 10 hours assuming that's a straight flight."

"Right, I checked." Lestrade smiled now, nodding to himself, "Given how careful they were to obscure her identity, your Mum wouldn't have just booked her on the first available flight out, would she?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, "Of course not," he mused, "Mummy has been ever so careful to keep Sherrinford hidden. No, she'd not choose a domestic flight – too many unknowns there. She'd need a flight she could guarantee – private or government. Government flight, I should think, given what she was – she'd have all the contacts she'd need for that. She'd have to be careful; she'd need to do it without Mycroft or Anthea being alerted. With the whole Moriarty broadcast, everything was being watched, there's no way she could arrange that sort of flight that quickly without attracting attention. She'd need a two, possibly three days."

Greg Lestrade sat forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, "Exactly. That means that Sherrin was back in England _before_ that Moriarty's stunt hit British airwaves."

Mycroft scoffed, gesturing vaguely with one hand, "You're not suggesting that Mummy is behind this."

"And you call yourself the smart one," Lestrade countered, "No, I think Moriarty's behind it all. Start to finish, it's always been Moriarty." When Mycroft went to speak, Lestrade said simply, "Back when the Moriarty thing was coming to a head, one thing always bothered me. He was a genius, a right proper evil bastard. A genius – he could have done it in a hundred ways that wouldn't have drawn attention. Even if you suppose that Sherlock was his target, it'd have been better served as a janitor – they go everywhere, have access to everything. No, he chose IT for a reason."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as he sighed, "Of course, this was never about his autopsy, it was about hers." He turned to Mycroft and explained, "St. Bart's is a teaching hospital, they don't transfer data every so many years and delete it – so he joined IT and when he discovered he couldn't get what he wanted that way, he tried to charm his way to a pathologist."

"He was IT," Mycroft countered, "He was a genius with computers. He should have been able to located it on the servers."

"Nope," Sherlock said, enunciating the word carefully, "You'd think so except that about six years back, an enterprising student decided to engage in a little identity theft and made a fortune. Gave St. Bart's a bit of a black eye - all the autopsy reports and death certificates were relocated to a special server and it's in a room just outside the pathology lab."

Lestrade nodded, "Which explains why they tried to take Molly – any pathologist would have done. Our girl just happened to be on shift, bad luck for him - great luck for us."

Anthea rose, moving into the kitchen from which she returned with a mug and a plate of biscuits. Stepping over to Lestrade, she handed him cup and plate, patting him on the shoulder before sitting back down at her laptop. There she resumed typing, only to stop when she realized they were all staring at her. "What?" she demanded, "He earned that biscuit. He answered the one question and now we have a new one."

"And that is?" Mycroft asked.

"Why is he looking for a woman who's been dead for fourteen years?"

Notes:

The song for this chapter is Just the Way It Is by the Rembrandts. As always, thanks go to HeayPuckett for her work as beta, muse and cheerleader.


	19. Chapter 19 - Truth

Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, his gaze locked on the skull resting on the mantle – the problem presented by Anthea whirling in his mind. One question answered had opened a door and through it, dozens of new questions flooded through. Given the information already provided by Sherrinford, and should Lestrade's theory prove correct which Sherlock had every confidence that it would – then everything they thought they knew about Moriarty's method and means was patently false. At the moment, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to land horizontal on that new sofa in the living area with at least two nicotine patches on arm and give this situation the thought it deserved. It was also unlikely to happen, given the quiet but rapidly escalating argument developing betwixt Mycroft and Lestrade. Resigned to listening to them squabble, he poured himself a cup of coffee and prayed for a moment of quiet.

"Whilst I sympathize with your interests," Mycroft began, his tone indicating a distinct lack of sympathy, "We need answers only she can provide."

Lestrade glared at his friend, "Piss off, Mycroft. Sympathy isn't your strong suit. She's exhausted, we can afford her some time to rest a bit."

Mycroft set his cup down on the saucer, his eyes rolling heavenward, "By your own theory, she's been back in England for at least a few days. She's a Holmes, our obligations…"

"Oh spare me your," Lestrade started, his voice rising in volume and pitch which had Sherlock gazing longingly over at the Persian slipper, wondering for a moment if he should just pull out his emergency cigarette before there was significant bloodshed. " ..Stiff upper lip bollocks. Travel isn't the only source of fatigue, you git."

Mycroft sneered at his friend, "I understand you harbour feelings for the woman but please, do not attribute antiquated Victorian ideals to her. I expect that her skills are still formidable, lack of sleep won't kill her when it's evident that a bomb cannot."

"Even you need rest on occasion, Mycroft!" Lestrade protested.

"I would say it's academic as she appears to be awake," Sherlock cut in as he watched Sherrin shuffle down the hall, clad in green tartan flannel pyjamas with his dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. "Though why you would think she could possibly sleep through your banter is beyond me."

"We weren't that loud," Lestrade protested. The flat look that Sherlock gave him spoke volumes. She stood there for a moment, fisting sleep from her eyes before she slumped down into John's chair.

She stared at Sherlock for long enough that he began to fidget, "Caffeine or nicotine, your choice – just get me one."

With those words, Sherlock stepped up out of the chair in a single motion and strode over to the fireplace. Plucking the cigarette from its hiding place, he held it out to her with great care, "My last one," he said matter-of-factly, "as the good doctors have insisted I cease with my 'dirty habit'. It's yours, if you'll consider sharing."

"Good lord, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, "the least you can do is give the damn thing to her."

She laughed, "I'll make you a deal, baby brother, throw in a coffee and we share the cigarette." With a boyish grin, he relinquished control of the cigarette and lighter to her, stepping over Mycroft's legs to stand by the table where he poured a coffee – two cream, no sugar – and handed it to her. She took a sip, smiling, "Here you are, darling," she said as she passed him the cigarette, "as promised."

Lestrade watched the byplay silently as elder and younger Holmes shared coffee, cigarette and fond gazes. If Mycroft glowered from the corner, neither of them commented on it though they did spare him the occasional amused glance. The byplay was very new for Lestrade, he was familiar with the relaxed if somewhat prim relationship between Sherrin and Mycroft, he was even more familiar with the barely concealed surface hostility between Mycroft and Sherlock which hid affection both would adamantly deny, but this open affection between Sherrin and Sherlock was something else entirely. Not even with John, had Lestrade seen Sherlock so open and he found himself wondering what the Holmes family had been like before the bombing – before they'd become so broken.

After a few moments and a second cup of coffee, she looked over at Mycroft and said, "You have theories and questions."

Mycroft gave a curt nod as he raised his tea cup, "Gregory has a theory and I have questions."

Her focus shifted to Lestrade, one elegantly arched eyebrow lifting, "I'm listening."

"It was never about Moriarty, love," Lestrade said simply. "Everything he's done, it's been about you in some way – all of it, the Fall, Magnusson, the autopsy – everything he'd done has been about you or gaining leverage over the people closest to you."

The smile she gave him was radiant; she glanced over to Mycroft and asked, "Do you see how why I wanted him from the first? He sees it too, maybe not as quickly as we do, but he does see it."

"In this case, sister mine, I do not 'see it' as he does and that vexes me greatly."

She sighed, her fingers clenching around the mug in her hand, "That's because you have an unnatural desire for things to be complicated, Mycroft – you always have." Her fingers clenched around the mug in her hand. "I told Sherlock earlier that I'd hurt the both of you despite his protestations to the contrary – yes, Mummy made decisions I may not have made but she was doing what she could to keep us all safe." She held up her hand when Mycroft started to interrupt her, "You have no idea of the scope of the situation, you're still functioning under several misconceptions."

Armed with a full cup of coffee, Sherlock nodded to himself slightly before asking, "He was behind the attempt on your life, wasn't he? He was the bomber that Mycroft couldn't find."

The smile that flitted across her features was bitter, "Yes and no, he was responsible for the bomb but it was never his intent to kill me."

Mycroft stood, exasperation evident in his posture, "For Christ's sake, Sherrin…"

"Sit down and do shut up," she ordered, watching as he sat down, rigid with disapproval, "He wasn't trying to kill me, he was trying to kill you. That bomb wasn't meant for me, brother dear."

Tea balanced on her knee, she took a mouthful of scone, chewing while they digested the news she'd just imparted. Washing down the bite of scone with a mouthful of tea, she said to Sherlock, "You were likely too young to remember, you were maybe six or seven at the time – I went straight from Uni into service. It had always been my attention to be involved in Intelligence, the Cold War was in full swing and I'd focused my studies on Eastern Bloc politics, culture, and language. It had been decided on high that I should get some field experience and with the 1984 Olympics being held in Sarajevo, I was listed as an 'aide'. Mummy had heard all manner of rumours regarding illegal activities running out of the embassy – prostitution, graft, counterfeiting, murder for hire."

Lestrade stared at her, "Your Mum sent you into that? Did she paint a target on your back?"

She rolled her expressive eyes, gripping the mug tightly, "Hardly. She sent me in as Elizabeth Vernet, no one at the consulate knew who I really was. All they knew was I was fresh into the service, spoke Serbo-Croatian languages fluently and that the SIS intended for me to work with in field agents. That's how I meet James Moriarty – he was working at the consulate as part of the security detail."

"You said you were his control, earlier when you first arrived," Mycroft reminded her, "how did that come about?"

"It was determined by the SIS that one of the cleaning staff was giving information about the Embassy to the SFRY government – Moriarty was and is a shooter – he had a basic understanding of Slovenian but his abilities in the other languages was poor. While frowned on, it wasn't uncommon to see office romances pop up in foreign missions – the SIS thought that if we posed as a couple, we would have higher mobility outside the Embassy and that it was possible that the SFRY might even try to coerce us into giving over information. Under the cover of going to Sarajevo to check and co-ordinate security concerns, we made multiple trips. I played doting girlfriend, he played the gallant and to all appearances we did our job."

"To all appearances?" Lestrade asked.

She nodded, "We found what appeared to be proof that one of the embassy staff was involved in smuggling contraband into the UK through diplomatic means. While searching his flat, I found what appeared to be documents concerning the security layout of the embassy. Blueprints, schedules, staff rotations – I wanted to contact home right away, James tried to get me to go with him at a secondary location – wait for backup. While we were arguing our action, we heard a lot of cars arrive at the flat – we fled and were separated. I reported back, called home, told Mummy about what we've found. Within hours, the embassy staff was rotated out – except for that one lone staff member and Moriarty."

"And that staffer would be?"

"Sebastian Moran, son of Lord Augustus Moran – of whom, I believe you and Sherlock have some passing knowledge. He disappeared without a trace, it was hushed up in deference to Lord Moran's standing – James was presumed dead. His car was found burned out some time later." She set the mug down, eyes unfocused, "I was home by then, integrated back into Mummy's office here in London. Three months after I arrived home, a bouquet of lily of the valley was delivered to my flat with a card that read 'See you soon, darling'"

"Subtle, lily of the valley being the national flower of Yugoslavia," Sherlock murmured.

"Yes," she agreed. "The following week, I received an item by courier and the gifts continued every week or two for approximately four months. His surveillance of me was top notch, the gifts he sent at first were sentimental, after a while they became things that I'd considered in shops. After that initial four month period, I'd randomly get items with no determined time table, from varying locations – chocolate from Brussels, a bottle of very fine Bordeaux, an amber necklace from Konigsberg. The gifts would stop for a while and then suddenly stop for a month or two. As time progressed, they became more and more valuable – the sources and means of delivery more and more complex. Then the carved jet chess pieces started to arrive."

"A rather byzantine approach to courting gifts," Mycroft stated, "whatever did he hope to achieve?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, wondering in that moment if his brother was complete obtuse, "What piece arrived first?"

"The White Queen, of course."

Notes:

The song for the chapter is Elemental by Tears for Fears.

Take another leap in the dark  
With a humble heart  
Do yourself some good?  
What did you become?  
Patience, be sure  
Baby, baby

These days it's all in the mind  
It's Elemental  
Don't say you're up when you're down  
It's Elemental


	20. Chapter 20 - Solutions

"The Queen, how cliché – playing to your vanity," Mycroft drawled, reaching out to grab a biscuit from the plate on the table. After a moment, he looked up to notice the flat stares of his siblings. Crystalline blue eyes stared at him for a long moment before he snapped, "What now?"

"She's not the White Queen, you idiot," Sherlock snapped, "You are." His focus shifted to his sister, "He was sending you a message."

"Yes," she agreed, her eyes were unfocused, remembering days long past. It was a system used in Yugoslavia – chess pieces represented persons of interest, targets. There were many days when we would play chess in the park, he always chose black." She stood abruptly, setting the mug on the table beside her and walked around the flat, "There's not much more to tell, really. I chose an afternoon when I knew Mycroft would be busy, went to Hyde Park and hired out a deckchair and waited. I didn't have to wait long – five minutes at the most and there he was, bold as brass. He told me in no uncertain terms that I'd made a mess of his short term plans but that in the long run, it had all worked out far better than he hoped. He made it plain, if I left with him, he'd leave England and we could tour the world.

"And if you didn't?"

"He'd destroy everything I held dear; he would start with London and burn it down around me until I begged him to stop. He'd kill my Queen and work his way down to through the pawns until there was nothing left." Her knuckles were white, her spine rigid as she stood there staring at the wall, "I was prideful, too sure that I could protect everyone. I walked away from him. Two days later, I heard some rumours and decided to change my schedule – to take care of a routine task I normally sent Mycroft to deal with. You know the rest."

"Why?" Mycroft whispered, that mask of ice gone, "You had to know he'd try something."

She nodded, arms hugging her ribs and her eyes clouded with remembered pain, "Why? You're my little brother; it's my job to protect you." When he let out a short bark of bitter laughter, she turned to him and said, "I will always remember the day when Dad sat me down on the sofa and put you on my knees. The oldest watches out for the wee ones, he told me, I was a big sister now and little ones need to be watched over. How could I tell him that I'd let you die, Myc? That I sacrificed my brother for the Empire?" Angry tears fell down her face, "No, that I could not do."

"So you sacrificed yourself?"

Her shoulder slumped in defeat, rocking slightly on her heels, "That was never the plan but he has a way of tossing the best of plans into the rubbish."

Mycroft sighed, straightening his suit as he sat staring into the depth of his teacup, "So we wait and see what he wants.

Sherlock studied his siblings, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, "We know what he wants." Mycroft's gaze swung to his but Sherrinford stared resolutely on the floor, "He wants what he's always wanted."

"Me," she whispered.

Her chin lifted slightly and Sherlock could almost watch as she placed her mental armour back in place. He stepped over to his sister, his hands coming to rest on her slight shoulders, "Yes," he studied her carefully, giving her a quick but firm hug, "How long before he contacts us?"

She shrugged, "Could be a few days, could be hours – he's fickle. There are so many factors to take into consideration. He may not even be certain that I'm alive. He might just be acting on instinct."

"You don't believe that."

"No," she agreed, "I don't."

In the end, there was nothing to do but wait – after a point, discussions became circular and pointless. After Lestrade's departure to the Watson residence, Anthea and Molly had announced their plans to get some sleep – the siblings had agreed that they should sleep in shifts and they had retreated to their own mental fortresses. By mutual consent, Sherrinford had claimed the bedroom first leaving Mycroft and Sherlock alone in the living area.

Mycroft had abandoned his suit for a pair of black trousers and a silk dress shirt, the closest to relaxed Sherlock had seen him in ages. Sherlock was worried about Mycroft, his carefully crafted aura of calm was crumbling around him and his brother gave all appearances of being adrift.

Rising from his seat, Sherlock slipped into the kitchen and rummaged through one of the cupboards, careful not to make too much noise. He bit down a laugh as he extracted a packet of nicotine patches from a box of biscuits stashed at the very back of the cupboard and returned to the living area. Applying three patches to his arm, he sat down in his chair and tossed the remainder of the box to Mycroft. "You have one hour to get your mental house in order – then we start."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, fatigue evident in the way he held his body, "We can scarcely begin, Sherlock. We know next to nothing about the man – everything we knew was a lie."

Fingers twinning under his chin, Sherlock shook his head as the faintest of smiles crossed his face, "Not so, brother mine, something you would realize if you were not trapped in your own guilt." At Mycroft's look of disdain, "I know you better than anyone, Mycroft and I've seen the face of your guilt before – I see it now." He leaned forward and hissed, "Get yourself together and think!"

"Which part of this would you like me to cogitate on, little brother. The part where a madman seems to fancy our sister or the fact that she willingly went to her death."

"We know his weakness," Sherlock said, "and he shall pay for it."

* * *

Sherrin emerged from the bedroom two hours later; she stopped abruptly in the kitchen to take a moment to memorize the picture before her.

Sherlock sat in his chair, fingers clasped as if in prayer, looking to the entire world like a Pre-Raphaelite angel with his strong jaw and chiselled cheekbones. Mycroft lay on the couch, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows –patches visible on his forearm. His fingers rested on his wrist as if he'd fallen asleep taking his own pulse. The extreme care with which he slicked back his hair had been undone by the cushions, his hair curling ever so slightly.

Slipping further into the room, she stepped over to Mycroft, smoothing back an errant curl and covering him with a blanket before moving over to check on Sherlock. Reaching out to caress his cheekbone, she startled when his eyes snapped open and he reached out to grip her hand. One finger lifted to touch cupid bow lips as he stood and gestured for her to follow him into the bedroom.

With the door closed, he said simply, "He cannot accept that you went to what you knew was likely your death for him." When she blinked at him, he said simply, "As I have done similar now twice, I am a little more understanding of your position and I think I have an idea as to how to end this."

"And how do we do that?"

"We give him what he wants."

* * *

Notes:

There were a few songs on the playlist for this but most notably The Great Escape by P!nk and Radioactive by Imagine Dragons


	21. Chapter 21 - Check

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he patted the space beside him with his hand, holding the other hand out to her. _'So delicate,'_ he thought, as he watched her sit beside him, he'd always thought of her as taller, stronger but in watching her now he realized his memories were those of the boy he'd been. _'Slightly taller than Mummy' _he thought, '_though that could be attributed to the prosthetics.'_ He studied her for a long silent moment.

"Never mistake small for weak, Sherlock, you know better than that," she remarked. She sighed heavily, annoyance evident in her expression, "You can't see it any plainer than he can, you're both so …"

He shook his head, one hand rifled through his curls quickly. "Oh the contrary, I see it quite plainly. Mycroft and I, we frequently mock open sentiment but that does not mean that we are immune to it, no matter how much we try. Since my Fall, it has bogged down my actions more often than I care to admit. Mycroft says that caring is a disadvantage but John, no, John would argue that those we care about protect us." Focusing in on her, he smiled, "How to protect everyone and bring down Moriarty, no, that's what I can't see at the moment and it's an interesting puzzle. It's a puzzle that you and I have an hour to work out." At her quizzical look, he said with an impish smile, "That's the duration left on the sedative on Mycroft's patch."

* * *

Propped up on pillows and leaning back against the headboard, she watched him for a moment and then said, "We're agreed then?"

Sherlock nodded, "Given what little we know about his current operation, I cannot see any other way. This affords us some measure of time, we force his timetable this time." He fell back onto the mattress, head resting on his wrist as he stared up at the ceiling, "We start in the morning?"

"I should think so, waiting gains us nothing." She twisted slightly, setting her 'feet' on the floor, stood in a single fluid movement and walked to the door. She stood there for a moment, her hand on the doorknob, "Thank you."

He quirked his head slightly, "Whatever for?"

They studied each other for a moment, a shared gaze before she gave him a smile that was positively serene, "For acknowledging that we need to find another room." At his blank look, she said, "It's something that Dad said to me once – I always marveled at how someone with the attention span of a sneeze could alternately spout off things so profound." Seeing confusion flit across his expression, she smiled again, this one bright and cheerful, "Once when I was so very young and full of myself, I lamented that I was bored," her voice became very monotone, "so very bored and everyone there was so very boring," she explained, seeing his knowing smile as he acknowledged her viewpoint. The smile slipped from her face, replaced with one of intense focus, "He just stared at me and said 'If you're the smartest person in the room, you better find another room, right?"

"A tad simplistic isn't it?" he murmured.

"Everyone in this family focuses on how brilliant we are – brilliant mathematician, brilliant chemist, statistical genius yet we always sell him so short. The man is a Master of Philosophy, Sherlock, what do you think?" She shook her head, the curve of her lips was mocking, "One of the simplest statements ever uttered – 'I think therefore I am' was one of the most profound. He was right. The problem with being the smartest, in believing we're the smartest is we underestimate them and overestimate us. We think we've covered all the angles and we play it safe."

He nodded, understanding what she was trying to tell him, and grinned fiercely, "Well, today, we shall be bold in deed."

* * *

Mycroft became aware of the room with a start and sat bolt upright, glancing around. If he was surprised to see his sister in Sherlock's chair partaking of a cup of coffee, he gave no sign. She appeared to be freshly showered, her makeup was flawless which was impressive given what it hid and the wealth of her mahogany hair was neatly twisted and braided with precision. She was dressed in what he would have considered a battle suit, a rich azure blue wool with a slightly paler silk blouse, the only thing that surprised him was the state of her legs – she was dressed in a pencil skirt that reached to her just above her knees. The prosthetics that were visible were surprisingly life-like and she wore what appeared to be a very expensive pair of high heeled shoes on those feel.

"You appear to have slept well," she said by way of greeting, "Feeling better?"

Blinking rapidly, his eyes narrowed as he studied the room, noting Sherlock's absence, "I was not asleep."

She gave him a very toothy smile which he found somewhat disconcerting – a look that would have made Sherlock laugh given how often he'd seen that look mirrored on Mycroft's face. "Of course," she drawled, "the drool and blanket are figments of my imagination." She smiled at him, a false little smile that set his teeth on edge, "Sherlock," she began, "is in the shower. When he's done, I would suggest you avail yourself of it, you look a little peaky."

His spine went rigid, "You're up to something and you are far too smug not to be up to something."

Those extraordinary blue eyes of hers sparkled with merriment, "I'm simply rested, we have much to discuss once Sherlock is back and you've showered. No offense, brother mine, but you're a tad rank."

Several minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom clad in pyjama bottoms and his favourite blue dressing gown. With a glance, he took in Mycroft's stiff posture and Sherrinford's merriment and asked in exasperation, "Who baited who?" Mycroft looked pointedly away from Sherrinford, his gaze levelled at Sherlock, whereas Sherrinford glanced at Mycroft and fought back a laugh. "All right, well," he began, "Do I have time for a coffee before war games begin?"

"Oh grow up, Sherlock!" Mycroft spat before storming off down the hall, he slammed the door as he escaped into the bath.

They watched down the hall for a moment before Sherlock asked, "Were you able to get what we needed?" He poured himself a coffee, sat down in his beloved chair and at her nod; he took a sip of coffee and smiled. "Splendid."

When Mycroft returned to the living area, he was presented with a scene that struck him as odd, even for his siblings. Sherlock sat at the table that Anthea had previously used for her work; he was dressed in what Mycroft thought of as his work attire – charcoal grey suit coat, matching trousers and a dove grey linen shirt. What appeared to be the significant part of three sets of chess pieces, each patterned after the Lewis Chessmen, rested on the table. Gone were the black pieces and the pawns – all that remained were the multiples of the primary pieces – King, Queen, Bishops, Knights and the Warder versions of the Rook lay on the table.

Surveying the pieces, he asked, "What's the plan?"

Sherlock looked up at him and said simply, "I'm going to invite him out to play."

Notes:

As always, thank you to my beta HeayPuckett who reads all this before you so you don't have to put up with my messes. The song that I was listening to for this was Nothing Left to Say by Imagine Dragons.

Two more - thanks for reading.


	22. Chapter 22 - Mate

Sending out the invitation to play was so basic that Mycroft was astounded that he hadn't considered it himself. The plan was exceedingly simple and achieved with a minimum of fuss though he was certain that Sherlock had taken express delight in demanding a few hundred pounds. Scooping up the chess pieces, Sherlock bounded off down the stairs and out the door. A quick glance out the window revealed the simplicity of it all. Sherlock hailed a black cab, spoke to the cabby, passed over an amount of cash and then attached one of the chess pieces (with the expedience of two sided tape) on the top of the cab. Satisfied that the piece would remain where it had been placed, Sherlock knocked on the cab's roof and the vehicle departed. Sherlock paused for a moment, casually looking around before hailing another cab and repeating the process. When all the pieces were in play, he returned to the flat.

As he walked into the flat and paused near the door, his gaze on the bison above the table. "Ten minutes, I should think?"

Sherrinford nodded, standing smoothly, "That should be sufficient," she agreed. "Off to the WC before we go."

Mycroft watched her as she walked away before saying conversationally to his younger brother, "That shall never cease to astound me." At Sherlock's puzzled look, he clarified, "She walks with the faintest of limps in flats, yet there's no trace of it in heels."

Sherlock inclined his head, a slight hint of a smile curving his lips, "Vanity being an unknown quality in a Holmes."

A trace of an honest smile ghosted over Mycroft's features, "Yes, well, we all have our foibles."

"Yes, we do."

* * *

The plan as they explained it to Mycroft was simple, Mycroft and some of the agents would be nearby listening in to the conversation via a wire on Sherlock. Sherlock and Sherrinford would go and rent a deckchair in Hyde Park and find an open space in the Kensington Gardens.

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes before they heard the sound of footfalls behind them. Sherlock's first view of Moriarty was obscured by the length of a deck chair, the body of the chair concealing his body for a moment before he set it in place and slumped into it.

If 'Jim Moriarty' was sharp Westwood suits, James Moriarty was relaxed, clad dark brown trousers, white shirt and an olive grey wool jumper. He was slightly taller than his brother, more muscular through the shoulders though his face gave no hint of the age difference. If there was any give away at all, it was the hint of grey at his left temple – a hint of silver in amongst the dark brown. Moriarty leaned forward in the deck chair, his forearms resting on his thighs as he studied Sherrinford's face, a lazy smile lighting his face. When Sherrinford said nothing, his smile grew ever so slightly, "A little late to play shy, luv."

Her reply was not what Sherlock expected from her, "Sod off, James."

Moriarty laughed, his eyes flickering over to Sherlock and back, "Did you really need to bring Junior, luv, he's a bit of a mood killer? Where's your darling Mycroft?"

"Not here," she bit out, "What do you want, James, truly?"

_'What is she doing?'_ Sherlock thought to himself, _Moriarty was truly focused on her and his posture practically screamed his wants. He doesn't just want her, he's in love with her._

A flicker of amusement crossed his face for a moment, then it bled away much like a balloon that has been allowed to release its air slowly. All traces of smile gone, Moriarty glanced at her and then brown eyes flickered over to Sherlock and then past him to where Sherlock knew Mycroft and his men waited. "Not a matter of want, Sherri luv. Need, it's a matter of what I need. I told you what that was years ago now and all that delicious time wasted."

At that pronouncement, she smiled as she primly set her hands on her lap, "And whose fault was that, darling?"

He laughed, "Yours. I told you what I'd do, told you the price…"

"Did you honestly think that I'd just sit there and let you kill Mycroft with impunity?" She shook her head slightly, "You're making the same mistakes now that you made then."

He straightened in his chair, lifting one hand as if to gesture and the sound of a gunshot echoed through the park and he smiled as her eyes widened, "Did you really think that because I hadn't killed him by now that I never would?" He laughed at the look on Sherlock's face, "Oh junior, don't worry, you're safe for the moment."

She stood abruptly, stumbling slightly on the uneven grass and as Sherlock reached out to steady her, slapped away his hands. "Leave them be, James."

He smiled and Sherlock knew that smile so well, he'd seen it on the brother's face several times. James Moriarty was certain he'd won and once again Sherlock steeled himself as he planned his next move. "No, Junior." Moriarty murmured, "Not this time."

In a voice colder than he'd intended, "Do not presume to call me Junior."

James Moriarty turned at looked Sherlock full in the face, no fleeting glance, "Oh but you are, Sherlock, far more than Mycroft ever was." He smiled as he said 'was' and Sherlock pushed down the desire to punch the man full in the face, "This chess match of ours, Sherri, you were so fixated on the White Queen that you forgot one thing."

"And that is?"

His grin was sardonic as he sat back, "It's all about the King, luv." When she stared at him, he laughed, "It's not Mycroft's face in that locket of yours," Moriarty reached into the pocket of his trousers and extracted an old silver locket. She closed her eyes, sitting back down abruptly much like a puppet with cut strings and at Sherlock's perplexed look, Moriarty tossed the locket to him. Sherlock looked down at the locket, thumbed the catch and stared down at a picture of him when he was five. As Sherlock stared at the photograph, he heard Moriarty say, "So long, Junior."

As Moriarty started to raise his hand, he heard his sister laugh, "You and your damnable chess fixation. Just one question for you, _darling, _how protected is your King?" and a shot rang out.

* * *

Mycroft waited with his men, wishing that the sound quality from Sherlock's wire wasn't quite so sensitive, the birdsong was quite distracting. He watched as Moriarty sat down, spoke with his sister and to all appearances things were going well until he heard "Did you really think that because I hadn't killed him by now that I never would?"

He closed his eyes knowing in that instance that somewhere in this park, someone was targeting him and that he had seconds remaining. He'd seen the aftermath of Sherlock's shooting, seen the profound pain warp his brother's features and as he tried to mentally prepare himself for it, he was caught unawares as his body slammed to the ground. The hot scalpel of pain passed over him as he fell to the ground. He could hear the agents with him scrambling to cover him, he felt the hot viscous passage of blood on his face.

"Fuck!" he heard Lestrade hiss as suddenly the weight on his chest lifted. Hands scrambled to lift him and he heard Lestrade spit, "Leave him down, you idiots – cover him!" The weight off him, Mycroft turned to see Lestrade rocking as he held his right arm at an awkward angle. Blood seeped from his shoulder and to Mycroft's shock and horror, he saw Molly Hooper rush out of the cover of some trees to fling herself down beside Lestrade as she rummaged through a pack she'd tossed on the ground beside her. Bandages emerged from the pack as she applied them to Lestrade's shoulder and began to order two of Mycroft's milling protection officers around.

* * *

Sherlock turned to stare at Sherrin as the second shot rang out and Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "Not going your way, darling?" At his snarl, she smiled the first honest smile she'd given him. "Here's the deal, take it or leave it. You pack up and leave England."

Dead brown eyes met vibrant blue, "And what do I get out of this?"

"You get to play another day, James," she replied, smoothing her skirt carefully

"No, you don't get off that easily, luv, so we'll do this the hard way," he snarled.

Eyes fixed steadily on his, she slid her hands down her right knee, lifting her skirt slightly as she detached the leg at the knee and set the leg across her lap. That he was startled was evident in his face and he looked everywhere but at the prosthetic. "And what," she asked, "would you know about hard, James? What would you know about sacrifice?" She paused, moving to reattach the prosthetic, hard cold blue eyes blazing, "Do you know why countless members of this family go into government service?" At the blank look on his face, she sat back and said, "We've always been brilliant – what many of us lack is focus, purpose. We watch, we guard, we protect because left alone we become you and that alternative is too terrifying to contemplate. " She watched dispassionately as a red dot appeared on his forehead and she gave a single emphatic nod.

* * *

Notes:

One more and then we're done this tale. Thank you for reading.


	23. Chapter 23 - Epilogue

The force of the bullet impact sent Moriarty's body tumbling backwards, knocking over the deckchair as the body hit the ground in a sprawl. Sherlock watched with a certain shock and more than a bit of awe as his sister stood, stepped over the spill of Moriarty's body and stared down dispassionately at his face.

Her voice was completely devoid of any intonation when she whispered, "Check and mate, you bastard."

There was the sound of someone jogging toward them, she turned at the same time that Sherlock had and they watched Anthea approach. This was an Anthea that John Watson would not have recognized, she was almost utterly foreign to Sherlock as well - gone was the prim immaculate admin, in her place stood a capable markswoman clad in the distinctive military uniform of the Intelligence Corps with its cypress beret. The barrel of an Accuracy International rifle L115A3 peaked up over her shoulder, the specialty rifle seemingly too large for her. She joined Sherrinford beside the body, a clinical look on her face. "Too far to left, I need to spend more time on the range," she commented before shrugging. She smiled at Sherlock, eyes sparkling as she said, "Your brother is fine, sir. DI Lestrade decided to play hero."

At that pronouncement, Sherrinford turned to leave but to Sherlock's surprise, Anthea reached out and grabbed his sister by the wrist, "No, ma'am, you'll only be in the way. Molly has everything in hand and a medic has arrived as well. Someone with authority needs to be here to deal with the police and," looking down at her uniform, "I really shouldn't be seen like this. It would undermine certain relationships with the Met if I was seen like this. I'll withdraw for now, go change and meet up with you later." She paused, "With your permission, of course."

"One moment," Sherlock said, as he realized what was bothering him, "When exactly did you plan for Anthea and Molly to be here?" Sherlock asked, his voice cool.

"She didn't, exactly," Anthea admitted. "Not Lestrade either but you lot…" She sighed and set the rifle down beside Sherrin's deck chair and sat down, "You lot think you're invincible until you're forcibly reminded that you're not. So when Ms. Holmes came to see me before you left, we decided to make a few changes of our own." She looked over at the corpse on the grass and then focused her attention to the agents that ran across the green towards their location, "My orders were simple - take out Moran, the only person Moriarty trusted – good plan but that presupposed that Moran would be here and if Moriarty ran to type that meant Moran had a target." She looked back to Sherrinford and said, "I will always owe you for taking a chance on me, moving me up out of the basics but the debt I owe you is nothing compared to what I owe the boss. I made," she paused, "an executive decision."

Sherlock watched as the agents lifted Moriarty's body and slid it into the body bag. As they prepared to leave, he said, "If it's all the same, I think I'd like to accompany the body to St. Bart's," glancing over at Anthea, "If you could arrange for Molly to meet me there, I would be most grateful. I expect that you both have… other concerns."

Sherrinford nodded, stretching up to place a kiss on his cheek, "See you back at Baker Street?" He smiled, winked and returned the kiss. He gave Anthea a half bow and strode off as they carted off the body to where he was certain his pathologist already waited.

* * *

The drive to St. Bart's was almost tranquil when you took the events of the last four days into consideration. That it had only been four days amazed Sherlock, it had felt like an eternity – not surprising given the miniscule four hours of total sleep he'd had in that time. He had stayed with the body as Mycroft's agents transported it to an ambulance and he had elected to accompany the body, unwilling to lose sight of it for a single moment. Molly had elected to sit in the back with him, she had her own reasons for wanting to see the body safely to St. Bart's.

He remained silent when they unloaded the body, when the lab technicians assisted Molly in removing the body from the bag, disrobed it and she began the process of examining it.

Standing off to the side as he gazed on the face of the man who had actively sought his family's destruction, he felt a measure of relief and suddenly, a deep sadness. With Moriarty dealt with quickly and with relatively little damage (he hadn't even been the person to end his terror), he had no doubt that there was a terrible price still to be paid for Magnusson. Watching Molly as she catalogued the trauma to the head, took the pictures that recorded it all, he was left with a sour feeling in his stomach. This was the man who had essentially ordered the attack on her and she was calmly going about her work whilst he stood fighting his own inner demons.

"When were you going to tell me?" she asked as she washed the gore from the corpse's hair, watching as it went into the biohazard container below.

His body went rigid but she seemingly paid no notice, her attention firmly on the body, "It has been a long day, Molly Hooper, forgive me if I have no idea of that which you speak."

"Sherlock," she chastised, her gaze flicking up to his before returning to her work, "After the last four days, are we really going to pretend again? How stupid do you really think I am?"

He shook his head, walking away from the body, away from her, "Don't ask me again, I am unable to answer."

"Unable or unwilling?"

"Both. Neither. What does it matter?" he asked, exasperated, "They're not my secrets to tell."

She set down the hand-sprayer, watching him for the first time since the autopsy started, "Not this," she said, gesturing to the body, "If I'm meant to know, I'm sure I'll hear through channels. Some things about this make no sense. You never explained and I've had nothing but time since this started to think about it. You arrived at St. Bart's awfully fast when that image aired, faster than you should have. I'm not first on your list, I'm not even second, but you got here so fast which got me thinking, for you not to think of John, not to worry about Mycroft – that meant you were with them when this happened. Why were you with them?"

"A minor issue," Sherlock said quietly, "Of no consequence."

"Okay." At that quiet pronouncement, he watched her carefully - set on guard by the flat delivery in her tone, she had turned her attention back to the body and began to study the almost delicate mark on the forehead.

"Okay? Just okay?" He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed in her acceptance of his answer.

She measured the entrance wound with great care, marking down the detail on a form before answering him, "What would you like me to say? You don't trust me enough to tell me the truth and I see no point in pushing the point."

"Of course, I trust you," he muttered, "I have always trusted you."

She shook her head, "The only thing you give more frugally than your affection is your trust. You've needed me, you've used me but I don't believe for a second that you trust me. So if you can't trust me, stop distracting me and let me get about this."

Perturbed, he moved over to his favourite microscope, long fingers tracing around the lab equipment as he gathered his thoughts. "Would you mind if I sat in your office for a while?" At the quirk of her brow, he took that for acceptance and strode away from her to sit in the dark.

* * *

_"The only thing you give more frugally than your affection is your trust."_ Those words echoed through the walls of his mind-palace and no matter where he walked, the sound of them returned to him.

"She's right, of course," he heard a quiet voice say to him. Looking over, he was surprised to see his mind's version of Sherrinford step into the room that was the twin to his old bedroom. Unsurprising, really, Molly had replaced her as his voice of reason – rather appropriate that Sherrinford would return given the events of the past days.

He was sprawled on his old bed and after a moment, she sat beside him. She smiled at him and said, "You have a choice, my boy. You can continue down the path you've already started on or you can become like Mycroft."

"I'm nothing like Mycroft," he hissed, annoyed. This wasn't really Sherrinford, this was his mind trying to tell him something and he refused to accept that he was anything like his controlling brother.

"Not yet," she agreed, "but the potential is there. You both made choices when I died," she held up her hand when he made a move to interrupt, "Terrible choices. He closed himself away, in that suit of ice he wears and you tried the same, oh you tried until John beat down those walls. Do you remember what I said at the Park? That we go into service lest we become the devil – we need something outside ourselves to keep us from becoming like Moriarty. You aren't like him, not like Moriarty."

"I am now," he retorted.

"No. Not yet. He never felt a thing for anyone. He didn't love anyone, no matter what you may think and no one loved him in return. He certainly didn't love me - he wanted a toy, a pretty thing to show off – he wanted to control, to possess. He was willing to destroy everything precious in my world to do that, does that sound like you?" She paused, standing on bare feet, toes splayed on the thick carpet, "That woman out there has taken everything that he dished out over the last few days and she's currently washing brain bits down the drain. Does that seem like the type of woman who would balk at something as simple as the truth?"

"She deserves better than I can give her."

"Can or will?"

Groaning, he swung his feet to stand and found himself in the garden at his parent's cottage, warm sunlight streaming down and he heard his father talking to Mummy, explaining why he was trying to build a garden in a particularly rocky area. "Nothing worth the time doing is ever easy, love." His eyes snapped open and he leaned forward in the chair to look around.

Best to just tell her, he thought as he stood and left the office. She looked up for her work, her gaze steady when she heard him say, "It's complicated, Molly. It goes all the way back to the case with the Underground carriages."

She nodded, understanding that this conversation would not be easy for him, as she covered Moriarty's body with a sheet. She slid the tray into the compartment and closed the door. She didn't mention that he'd been sitting in the dark for hours, oblivious while she completed the autopsy - she'd give him the results later.

"That long," she said as she stepped toward him, "this is going to take a while then. Coffee?"

* * *

Notes:

So ends my first fic, I hope you enjoyed it - it was tremendous fun to write. None of this would have been possible if not for the moral support and commentary of HeayPuckett. She helped me get back on course when things went off the rails and cheered when I opted to leave some threads dangling.

The idea of this fic and the others was to establish my own headcanon for how Sherlock evolves and how that evolution affects Molly - so you're going to see more of that in the future (knock on wood). Thank you for reading.


End file.
